TH 


THE     PAGEANTRY 

OF 

LIFE 


THE   PAGEANTRY 

OF 

LIFE 


BY 

CHARLES   WHIBLEY 


NEW    YORK 

HARPER   &    BROTHERS 

PUBLISHERS 

i  900 


This  Edition  is  for  sale  in  the  United 
States  of  America  only,  and  is 
not  to  be  imported  into  Countries 
signatory  to  the  Berne  Treaty 


UNIVERSITY  01'  CALIFOR? 
SANTA  BARBARA 


"  Studious  they  appear 

Of  arts  that  polish  life" 

Milton 


/  desire  to  thank  Mr.  William 
Blackwood  for  his  courteous  permission 
to  reprint  the  chapter — Disraeli  the 
Younger — which  appeared  in  the  pages 
of  his  Magazine. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Introduction     ...  .  i 

Young  Weston        .  .  •  •        +1 

A   Marshal  of  France  ...  59 

Theagenes  .  .  •  •  •  .85 

The  Real   Pepys  .  .  107 

Saint-Simon  .  .  •  •  .125 

A   Friend  of  Kings        .  .  .  .  177 

The  Caliph   of  Fonthill  ....      197 
Barbey  D'Aurevilly      .  .  219 

Disraeli  the  Younger        ....      237 


INTRODUCTION 

THERE  is  an  Art  of  Life,  as  there  are  arts  of 
colour,  form,  and  speech  ;  and  what  a  material 
is  theirs  who  practise  it  !  The  poet  or  painter  is 
perforce  engrossed  with  a  momentary  aspect  of  this 
one  or  that ;  he  finds  an  inspiration  in  a  passing 
thought  or  in  the  outward  seeming  of  man  or  moun- 
tain :  the  cataract  may  haunt  him  like  a  passion,  or 
he  may  attempt  to  simplify  the  mysteries  of  the  sea. 
But  his  motive  is  still  fragmentary;  his  subject  is 
expressed  in  a  passing,  imperfect  symbol.  The 
Artist  in  Life,  on  the  other  hand,  need  recognise  no 
limit  save  death.  He  takes  his  days  with  all  their 
delicate  variety,  and  cuts  them  into  what  form  he  will. 
His  smallest  action  is  an  added  touch,  a  fresh  detail  in  the 
vast  design.  Life  is  his  material,  enjoyment  his  medium, 
and  to  enhance  the  effect  of  his  single  masterpiece  he 
may  employ  the  manifold  resources  of  gaiety  and 
splendour.  Rare  wines  flatter  his  delicate  palate  ;  his 
ingenuity  designs  a  new  cravat  or  a  coat  of  unwonted 
elegance;  wit  and  beauty  are  his  constant  companions; 
and  whate'er  befall  he  never  knows  the  shame  of  vulgar 
commonplace  or  dismal  routine.    Concerned  onlv  with 

A 


2  INTRODUCTION 

his  own  perfection,  he  is  a  miracle  of  selfishness :  that 
is  the  first  condition  of  success  ;  and  it  is  not  surprising 
that  he  too  often  escapes  the  sympathy  of  his  fellows. 

For  it  is  no  part  of  his  design  to  be  a  good  citizen, 
and  if  he  do  deserve  well  of  his  country,  he  claims  her 
gratitude  in  an  interval  snatched  from  his  more  serious 
enterprise      The  common  ambitions  are  incidental  to 
his  nature,  when  they  are  not  abhorrent  from  it.     He 
neither   controls  governments  nor  wins  battles.     He 
despises  the  glory  which   follows  a  popular  triumph, 
and  he  professes  no  greater  interest   in  the  secrets  of 
philosophy  than  is  becoming  to  a  person  of  wit.     Nor 
is  he  a  shining  example  of  the  homely  virtues  ;  with 
him  a  sense  of  the  picturesque  is  more  vivid  than  the 
sense  of  morality.     He   does  not   cut   his  life  into  a 
sermon  ;  rather  he  shapes  it  into  a  witty  romance.    The 
external  world  is  his  province — a  dazzling  appearance, 
discreet  magnificence,  the  quick-exchanged  repartee. 
Yet  by  a  nonchalance  of  manner,  by  a  proper  pride  ot 
conduct,  he  guards  his  superiority  over  those  whom  the 
world  esteems  more  valiant  heroes  ;  and  since  he  makes 
the  rarest  appearance  upon  the  world's  stage,  his  claim 
to  a  unique  grandeur  is   not  extravagant.     There  are 
ten  generals,  twenty  statesmen,  to   balance  one  hero 
who  has  conquered  life  ;  and  if  we  may  judge  by  results 
it  is  easier  to  discover  a  savage  country  or  to  sing  an 
uniieard  melody  than  to  design  a  new  coat  or  to  invent 
a  dish  untasted  before.     Above  all  the  true  artist  in  life 
must  cnmb  the  frozen  altitude  of  self-consciousness,  a 
more  difficult  peak  to  scale  than  Chimborazo  ;  he  must 


THE  ARTIST  IN  LIFE  3 

"  live  and  sleep,"  as   one  said  who   knew  him  well, 
"  before  a  mirror." 

What  then  makes  the  artist,  who3e  portrait  is 
here  attempted  ?  It  is  not  profession,  nor  birth,  nor 
manners,  nor  knowledge,  nor  success,  though  all  these 
are  invaluable  accessories.  It  is  temperament,  it  is  life. 
The  priest  need  not  lag  behind  the  courtier.  Who- 
ever had  a  finer  sense  of  grandeur  than  Wolsey  ?  and 
was  not  Pascal  famous  for  his  six  horses  ?  Nor  need 
poverty  disturb  a  skilful  exercise  of  the  art.  Burns  had 
a  glimpse  into  its  possibilities  when  he  sported  the 
only  tie  wig  in  the  parish,  and  the  simple  propriety 
of  a  graceful  dinner  is  beyond  the  pocket  of  no  man 
who  can  afford  clean  linen  and  a  cheese.  Again, 
the  coat  depends  for  its  effect  less  upon  the  reckless 
use  of  velvet  or  satin  than  upon  the  bravery  wherewith 
it  is  worn.  But  an  inapposite  assumption  of  birth,  a 
clumsy  show  of  riches,  are  the  worst  foes  of  elegance : 
without  the  true  temperament  the  resources  of 
Golconda  will  avail  nothing.  When  Byron  said  he 
would  rather  be  Brummel  than  Napoleon,  he  did 
not  merely  pay  a  deserved  tribute  to  the  genius 
of  dandyism  ;  he  acknowledged  that  the  Dandy  was 
distinguished  by  rarer  qualities  than  those  which 
achieve  the  conquest  of  the  world.  Yet  Brummel 
could  dazzle  his  rivals  neither  by  exalted  birth  nor  by 
lavish  dislay.  He  was  gifted  with  nothing  save  the 
sublime  talent  of  his  craft,  and  he  triumphed. 

But  the  artist,  alas  !   cannot  always   take   a  serene 
pleasure  in  his  perfected  work.     Though  his  is  ever  the 


4  INTRODUCTION 

joy  of  creation,  he  is  not  permitted  to  contemplate  the 
result  with  appreciative  impartiality.  For  life  gene- 
rally unveils  itself  to  him  who  lives  it  as  a  panorama. 
Now  fortune  overcomes  the  design,  now  the  unexpected 
imposes  a  sudden  change.  And  he  who,  unconsciously 
maybe,  was  aiming  at  a  complete  harmony,  is  com- 
pelled to  content  himself  with  a  set  of  brilliant,  dis- 
cursive images.  Still,  there  have  been  men  of  so  strong 
a  nature  that  they  have  themselves  put  the  last  touch 
to  life,  and  forced  the  picture  to  justify  the  sketch.  So 
Disraeli,  if  we  forget  his  politics,  remained  until  the 
last  hour  within  the  same  frame  whose  four  corners 
bounded  his  youthful  design  and  boyish  ambition. 

Yet  a  greater  grief  than  unfulfilled  purpose  pursues 
the  artist.  Declining  grandeur  is,  save  for  the  rare 
and  happy  few,  touched  with  regret.  The  egoist  is 
sad  at  last.  So  long  has  he  stared  at  himself  in  the 
mirror,  that  others  refrain  from  contemplation.  Or  a 
change  of  fashion  overwhelms  the  memory  of  his 
brilliant  youth.  So  Bassompierre  found  himself  dis- 
moded  when  he  left  the  Bastille,  and  Brummel  died  at 
Caen  in  broken  imbecility.  But  ultimate  failure  does 
not  impair  the  splendour  of  their  achievement :  reverses 
are  the  fate  of  all  great  men.  No  real  hero  ever  lived 
from  youth  to  age  without  a  check  upon  his  happiness; 
indeed,  he  who  boasts  an  unbroken  triumph  convicts 
himself  of  insensibility.  Even  Caesar,  with  the  world 
at  his  feet,  bewailed  a  bald  head. 

Life,  like  all  the  arts,  obeys  its  own  rules ;  since  life 
without  rules  is,  like  language  without  grammar,  inar- 


HONOUR  AND  RESTRAINT  5 

ticulate  and  absurd.  The  first  article  in  the  code  is 
that  wayward  body  of  antique  tradition,  called  honour, 
which,  by  enforcing  the  subtler  rules  of  conduct, 
checks  the  noisy  spirit  of  the  brawler  and  renders 
altercation  a  disgrace.  Next  in  order  come  dignity 
and  restraint,  without  which  magnificence  is  common 
and  splendour  a  vain  show.  A  perfect  fitness,  indeed, 
is  embarrassment's  only  antidote,  and  he  who  is 
embarrassed  must  needs  cure  his  malady,  or  crawl 
through  his  years  in  the  asylum  of  a  decent  obscurity. 
But  there  are  many  who,  falsely  claiming  to  practise  the 
art  of  life,  reverence  no  laws,  and  so  make  a  travesty  ot 
elegance.  Every  generation  is  troubled  by  a  rabble  of 
curiosity-mongers,  who  feign  an  exquisite  sensibility  to 
such  impressions  as  escape  them,  and  whose  appreciation 
of  unnumbered  sights  and  sounds  is  the  more  loudly 
expressed  as  it  is  felt  the  less  sincerely.  These  gentry, 
robbed  of  gaiety  and  courage,  can  make  nothing  of  their 
wizened  careers,  for  all  their  proud  ambition  ;  where- 
fore they  convert  their  vile  bodies  into  hoardings,  and 
advertise  by  the  effrontery  of  foolish  clothes  the  tastes 
after  which  they  impotently  hanker.  So  they  gather 
the  indiscriminate  spoils  of  all  countries,  and  by  their 
lack  of  choice  render  even  the  rare  and  beautiful  of  no 
effect. 

Worse  still  are  those  merry  blades,  the  roysterers, 
who  mistake  squalor  for  gaiety,  and  who  think  a  loud 
licence  the  best  mark  of  a  gentleman.  But  they, 
knowing  nought  of  a  more  gracious  world,  dwell  in  the 
dark  suburb  of  Bohemia,  where  they  delight  in  false 


6  INTRODUCTION 

freedom,  tempered  by  compulsory  poverty.  The  man 
of  sense,  driven  perchance  into  this  gipsyland,  passes 
through  it  hastily,  regretting  his  sojourn,  and  shaking 
off*  as  soon  as  maybe  the  memory  of  its  thickened 
atmosphere.  For  he,  at  once  the  art  and  artist,  inhabits 
a  fairer  province,  where  the  trees  are  not  smoke- 
begrimed,  and  where  the  voice  of  music  is  still  heard. 

The  most  self-conscious  of  craftsmen,  he  is  unselfish 
in  his  outlook  upon  posterity.  He  does  not  work  for 
fame  ;  he  raises  no  monument  (ere  perennius.  For 
him,  indeed,  his  art  is  its  own  reward,  since  it  en- 
hances the  pleasures  of  every  hour,  and  is  perfected  too 
often  without  a  record.  So  it  is  that  his  achievement 
is  generally  ephemeral,  and  affects  few  beyond  the 
reach  of  his  intimate  friendship.  But  now  and  again, 
if  he  be  gifted  with  sincerity,  he  sends  himself  down 
the  ages  in  his  own  despite  ;  sometimes,  even,  tradition 
preserves,  in  an  imperishable  sketch,  the  memory  of  his 
triumph.  Scrope  Davies,  for  instance,  the  near  rival 
of  Brummel,  is  well-nigh  forgotten.  His  conversation 
glittered  only  in  the  ears  of  those  who  heard  him,  and 
we  are  none  the  wiser  for  knowing  that  Bryon  found 
him  "  always  ready,  and  often  witty."  His  quiet 
manners,  his  discreet  attire  are  famous,  but  they  merely 
give  him  a  place  beside  Alvanley  and  the  best  of  his 
contemporaries.  We  are  nearer  to  the  truth  when 
Byron  tells  us  that  he  dined  tete-a-tete  at  the  "  Cocoa 
with  Scrope  Davies — sat  from  six  till  midnight — drank 
between  us  one  bottle  of  champagne  and  six  of  claret. 
.  .  .  Offered  to  take  Scrope  home  in  my  carriage  ;  but 


SCROPE  DAVIES  7 

he  was  tipsy  and  pious,  and  I  was  obliged  to  leave  him 
on  his  knees  praying  to  I  know  not  what  purpose  or 
pagod." 

Yet  neither  tipsiness  nor  piety  mark  out  Davies 
from  his  contemporaries.  It  is  only  when  we  see  him 
in  old  age  that  his  real  character  is  revealed.  Over- 
taken by  poverty  this  admirable  scholar,  wit,  and 
gamester  lived  at  Paris  in  a  single  room,  which  no 
intimate  ever  penetrated.  But  every  day  he  would  sit 
in  the  garden  of  the  Tuileries,  and  there,  bowed  down 
by  poverty  and  years,  he  would  receive  his  friends  with 
the  Dandy's  own  imperial  manner.  Thus  he  preserved 
untouched  the  genius  of  his  youth  ;  and  Scrope  Davies, 
on  the'  seat  of  the  Tuileries,  scrupulous  in  adversity, 
is  as  genuine  a  creation  as  a  canto  of  Don  ^juan  (let 
us  say),  or  the  "  Ode  to  the  Skylark."  Not  even  Old 
O.,  ruffian  that  he  was,  need  fear  oblivion,  for  he  too 
has  left  an  immortal  sketch.  There  he  will  remain, 
sinister  and  contemptuous,  beneath  the  shadow  of  an 
umbrella,  ogling  the  passers-by  from  his  renowned 
balcony,  so  long  as  the  memory  of  man  lingers  upon 
the  picturesque. 

The  art  has  not  been  practised  in  all  ages  with  equal 
success  ;  the  artist  himself  has  varied  with  the  period. 
Of  Greek  life,  in  the  elegant  sense,  we  know  as 
little  as  we  know  of  Greek  painting.  And  we  regret 
our  ignorance  the  more  because  we  are  confident  that 
the  Greek  was  supreme  at  all  points.  Such  intimate 
records  as  might  reveal  the  accomplishments  of  the 
men  about  Athens  are  unhappily  lacking.     Plutarch 


8  INTRODUCTION 

gives  us  just  a  glimpse  of  Alcibiades,  who,  like  Lord 
Chesterfield,  thought  the  flute  an  instrument  unworthy 
the  lips  of*  a  gentleman  ;  but  the  biographer  is  far  more 
interested  in  Alcibiades  the  politician  than  in  Alci- 
biades the  beau,  and  Alcibiades  the  politician  was  a 
secondary  personage.  When  the  Roman  Emperors 
sat  upon  their  throne  the  opportunity  is  less,  though  the 
records  are  more  eloquent.  But  the  men  of  that  age 
were  tainted  with  the  taint  of  the  amateur,  and  the 
artistry  of  Herodes  Atticus  (for  instance)  was  a  thing 
of  wealth  rather  than  of  talent. 

Throughout  the  Middle  Ages  life  was  so  hard  to 
live  that  ornament  was  impossible.  You  cannot 
imagine  a  primitive  Briton  embellished  with  the 
manners  of  the  Macaronis.  Even  the  savage  who 
decorates  his  canoe  or  polishes  his  kava-bowl  approaches 
nearer  to  delicacy  than  did  our  woaded,  touzle-headed 
ancestor.  And  chivalry  introduced  no  easier  refine- 
ment. The  Knight  in  Armour  was  too  heavily  clad 
for  dandyism.  It  is  true  that  he  devoted  a  certain 
coquetry  to  his  coat  of  mail,  which  he  chased  and 
chiselled,  polished  and  inlaid.  But  he  drank  deep 
stoups,  and  made  love  with  shrewd  blows  ;  nor  was  he 
ever  really  himself,  either  as  hero  or  lover,  until  his 
squire  had  hoisted  him  on  to  a  horse,  heavily  en- 
cumbered as  himself.  Now  and  again,  as  the  years  roll 
on,  there  are  signs  to  detect  of  awakening  splendour. 
Even  in  the  grim  reign  of  Louis  XI.  the  Dukes  of 
Berry  and  Brittany  showed  themselves  men  of  fashion 
by  their  love  of  useless  magnificence.     After  the  battle 


THE  NEED  OF  LEISURE  9 

of  Montlhery,  when  they  should  have  been  equipped 
to  fight  the  foe,  they  rode  forth  "  mounted  upon  small 
ambling  nags,  and  armed  with  slight  brigandines,  light 
and  thin,  yea,  and  some  said  they  were  not  plated,  but 
studded  only  with  a  few  gilt  nails  upon  the  satin  for 
the  less  weight."  Thus,  animated  by  a  spirit  which 
Brummel  himself  might  have  admired,  they  defied  the 
rules  of  war.  It  was  grace  whereat  they  aimed,  not 
valiance,  and  they  cared  little  with  what  weapons  they 
assailed  their  enemies,  so  they  cut  a  brave  and  dashing 
figure  before  their  friends. 

But  if  wealth  is  not  necessary  for  the  embellishment 
of  life,  leisure  is  indispensable  ;  and  it  was  only  when 
tranquillity  was  assured  the  world  that  men  had  time 
to  adorn  themselves  and  to  glorify  their  environment. 
The  rare  revelations  of  the  fifteenth  century  still 
suggest  a  grim  struggle  and  a  stern  debauch.  He 
whose  land  was  not  safe  from  his  neighbours'  aggres- 
sion, whose  house  must  be  in  very  truth  his  castle, 
needed  a  recreation  as  violent  as  his  duty.  Arms 
were  his  playthings,  a  fortress  was  his  library.  He  was 
forced  to  ponder  so  deeply  of  his  foes,  that  he  had  scarce 
a  thought  to  waste  upon  himself.  There  is  little 
gaiety,  for  instance,  in  that  storehouse  of  domestic 
history — the  "  Paston  Letters."  Who  should  be  gay 
with  savage  intruders  knocking  at  the  door?  And 
Margaret  Paston,  most  admirable  of  wives,  proved 
herself  the  just  child  of  her  age,  when  instead  of  jewels 
she  begs  of  her  husband  crossbows,  wyndocs,  and 
quarrels.     Yet,   though    crossbows   were   first   in    her 


io  INTRODUCTION 

thought  as  in  her  letter,  even  she  at  times  remem- 
bered the  trivialities  of  life,  and  would  have  sent  in  the 
same  packet  with  the  munitions  of  war  a  pound  of 
almonds,  a  pound  of  sugar,  and  "some  friese  to  make 
of  our  child  his  gouns." 

But  with  the  contemporaries  of  Mistress  Paston 
triviality  was  an  interlude,  and  it  was  only  with  the 
sixteenth  century  that  a  delicate  frivolity  smiled  on  the 
renascent  worlJ.  Nov/,  at  last,  life  was  pursued  with 
a  fierce  zest  and  for  its  own  sake.  On  either  side  the 
Channel,  the  beau  plumed  himself  upon  his  attire,  upon 
his  reckless  gaming,  upon  the  wrested  favours  of  women. 
The  Field  of  the  Golden  Cloth  was,  so  to  say,  a 
symbol  of  revived  magnificence  and  high  spirits. 
Henry,  young  and  handsome,  was  a  fitting  rival  for  his 
cousin  of  France,  nor  would  the  courtiers  yield  to  their 
monarchs  in  such  sports  as  became  a  gentleman. 
Henceforth,  then,  the  world  was  prepared  for  the  last 
extravagance,  and  the  most  daring  ruffler  might  find  a 
theatre  worthy  his  exploits. 

But  it  was  the  Restoration  which  heralded  the 
golden  age  of  life.  For  once  sentiment  and  oppor- 
tunity were  perfectly  matched.  On  the  throne  a  King 
who  preferred  wit  to  wisdom,  and  who  ruled  a  country 
eager  to  react.  For  a  while  patriotism  slept,  save  in 
half  a  dozen  wakeful  hearts,  and  the  glory  of  grave 
enterprises  was  obscured  ;  yet  regret  for  duties  un- 
accomplished need  not  blind  us  to  the  glamour  of  this 
wayward  reign,  which  at  least  was  inexorably  hostile 
to  dulness  and  stupidity.     Curiosity  triumphed  every- 


THE  GOLDEN  AGE  1 1 

where  ;  life  was  radiant  because  a  radiant  Court  was 
determined  to  enjoy  it.  The  theatre  echoed  to  a  wit 
which,  for  all  its  freedom,  was  never  disreputable, 
because  it  was  neither  senseless  nor  vulgar.  And 
beauty  was  omnipotent  over  King  and  Court. 
Manners  alone  made  man,  and  unkempt  virtue  had 
little  chance  of  sympathy  or  admiration.  Nobody 
eurtailed  his  pleasure  for  the  narrow  scruples  which 
before,  as  since,  have  controlled  society  ;  another 
standard  of  morals  invaded  the  town  with  a  more 
exclusive  ambition  :  an  ill-cut  coat  became  a  cardinal 
sin,  while  vice  lay  not  in  the  intrigue,  but  in  its  mis- 
conduct. 

Happily  the  age  was  garrulous  as  well  as  gay.  Its 
exploits,  which  shook  footstools  if  they  left  thrones 
secure,  have  been  set  forth  with  the  careful  fidelity  of 
eye-witnesses.  Our  own  Pepys  had  not  only  the 
quickest  vision  but  the  lightest  hand  of  them  all. 
Moreover,  to  him  no  world  came  amiss.  He  was  at 
home  at  Whitehall  or  in  the  City.  Wherever  he  went 
he  saw  what  was  best  worth  the  seeing,  and  he 
chronicled  it  with  a  simple  truth,  which  no  other 
artist  has  ever  surpassed.  Grammont,  on  the  other 
hand,  is  far  more  pompous  and  less  supple  than  his 
English  rival,  and  for  once  the  light-fingered  wit  is  on 
our  side  the  Channel.  Antony  Hamilton,  the  ex- 
quisite's biographer,  himself  an  exquisite,  was  inspired 
by  a  literary  ambition.  He  would  have  made  Gram- 
mont play  the  part  of  Achilles  in  an  Epic  of  frivolity  ; 
he  would  have  fashioned  him  into  the  hero  of  a  new 


12  INTRODUCTION 

"Cent  Nouvelles  Nouvelles."  So  that  while  Pepys  is 
the  friend  of  us  all,  Grammont  is  a  personage  in  a 
drama.  And  he  is  a  personage,  whose  indomitably 
high  spirits  atoned  for  many  of  the  meaner  vices.  His 
spiteful  tongue  gave  him  a  licence,  which  not  even  the 
Great  King  dared  to  dispute.  "All  was  permitted 
him,"  says  Saint-Simon,  "and  he  permitted  himself  all." 
In  truth,  had  not  gaiety  and  elegance  kept  him  afloat, 
he  would  have  sunk  in  youth  beneath  the  waves  of 
cowardice  and  dishonour.  But  a  mastery  of  life  confers 
distinction  upon  the  arrantest  knave,  and  Grammont 
kept  the  favour  of  the  Court  a  lively  cavalier  of  eighty- 
six  summers.  Unhappily  he  did  not  compose  his  own 
memoirs.  While  he  smiled,  Hamilton  held  the  pen, 
and  the  demure  Hamilton  did  not  possess  his  hero's 
reckless  spirit.  None  the  less  he  paid  him  the  loftiest 
compliment  known  to  literature.  "II  cherchait,"  says 
the  biographer,  "et  portait  partout  la  joie."  La  jole! 
that  was  the  end  of  Grammont's  palatial  ambition,  as 
it  was  the  end  of  Pepys's  ambling  curiosity,  and,  alas  ! 
it  is  an  ambition  which  in  these  days  has  yielded  to  the 
harder  lust  of  gold,  the  keener  pleasure  of  advancement. 
Grammont,  then,  sought  in  London  the  joy  which 
he  had  forfeited  at  the  Court  of  France,  and  he  played 
his  game  bravely,  in  accordance  with  the  prevailing 
rules.  A  magnificent  egoist,  he  never  spared  his 
nearest  friend  either  in  love  or  at  the  dice-board.  His 
career  was  like  a  Restoration  comedy — vivid,  irrespon- 
sible, and  monotonous.  Variety  was  unknown  to  those 
seekers  after  pleasure  ;   they  took  no  interest  in   the 


BEAU  NASH  13 

Dancing  Mare,  and  even  Jacob  Hall,  the  Rope-walker, 
left  them  indifferent.  No,  the  advent  of  a  fresh  Maid 
of  Honour  alone  availed  to  quicken  their  pulses,  and 
since  even  Maids  of  Honour  sometimes  lack  invention, 
Grammont  and  his  colleagues  ran  the  risk  of  staling 
their  enjoyment  by  too  zealous  a  repetition. 

But  the  succeeding  age,  while  it  lost  in  gaiety, 
gained  nothing  in  discretion.  France  declined  upon 
the  worship  of  etiquette  and  the  royal  wig.  England, 
after  an  interlude,  bowed  her  face  to  the  insolence  of 
Beau  Nash,  under  whose  sovereignty  pleasure  became 
general  and  democratic.  No  man  who  travelled  to 
Bath  need  despair  of  elegance.  For  elegance,  when 
Nash  was  Master  of  the  Ceremonies,  was  sold  over 
the  counter  :  you  paid  your  subscription  to  the  band, 
and  henceforth  you  were  a  man  of  fashion  ;  you  might 
walk  a  minuet  in  the  Pump  Room  with  the  best  of 
society ;  and  so  long  as  you  did  not  infringe  the 
tyrant's  laws  you  might  believe  yourself  the  legitimate 
successor  of  Grammont  and  Rochester.  It  was  droll, 
this  assumption  of  a  rare  quality  by  a  mob  which  had 
not  the  slenderest  pretension  to  true  elegance.  Yet 
to  purchase  genius  with  a  guinea  seemed  not  impossible 
to  the  eye  of  optimism,  and  at  Bath  beaux  grew 
common  as  poets  in  a  country  newspaper.  And  Nash 
himself  was  the  strangest  figure  of  them  all.  He  was 
shrewd,  he  was  impudent,  he  was  successful.  He  saw 
clearly  that  the  reputation  for  fashion,  sincerely  prized 
when  the  Second  Charles  was  King,  might  profitably 
flatter  the  general  vanity.     So  he  sold  a  title,  which 


14  INTRODUCTION 

was  not  his  to  bestow,  and  the  world  bought  it  without 
perceiving  the  folly  of  its  bargain.  Thus  a  talent, 
above  all  exclusive,  was  triumphantly  vulgarised  for 
the  unique  glory  and  profit  of  Richard  Nash. 

To  judge  his  clients  it  is  sufficient  to  read  the  rules 
devised  by  the  Beau  for  the  better  conduct  of  the 
Pump  Room.  To  judge  the  Beau,  it  is  enough  to 
consider  the  clumsy  wit  wherewith  these  rules  are 
framed.  Gentlemen  are  requested  to  give  their  tickets 
for  the  balls  to  none  but  gentlewomen.  "  N.B.  Un- 
less they  have  none  of  their  acquaintance."  The  wit 
in  the  "  N.B."  is  characteristic,  as  it  were  a  kind  of 
horseplay  in  words.  Again,  "  gentlemen "  are  re- 
minded that  if  they  crowd  before  ladies  at  a  ball  "  they 
shew  ill  manners  ;  "  after  which  caution  you  are  not 
surprised  that  stern  measures  were  taken  to  exclude 
riding-boots  from  the  assembly.  Nash,  indeed,  had  a 
ragged  team  to  drive,  and  he  drove  it  with  a  curb. 
For  himself,  he  was  less  a  beau  than  any  of  his  con- 
temporaries. Two  qualities  he  shared  with  many  a 
man  of  fashion — he  was  lazy  and  a  gambler  ;  but  the 
genius  which  would  have  made  his  laziness  a  virtue 
and  would  have  condoned  his  love  of  hazard  were 
wholly  lacking.  A  brusque  tyranny  did  duty  for 
humour,  and  at  the  last  he  was  free  to  insult  whom 
he  would.     So,  for  instance,  he  stripped  the  Duchess 

of  Q of  a  white  apron,  exclaiming    that  only 

Abigails  were  thus  attired,  and  none  was  brave  enough 
to  resent  his  impertinence.  Moreover  he  played  all 
the  foolish  tricks  of  his  time  :   for  a  wager  he  even 


THE  KING  OF  BATH  15 

rode  naked  on  a  cow.     But  he  ruled  Bath  like  a  king, 
and  passed  his  laws  with  an  imperial  assurance. 

A  professed  Master  of  the  Ceremonies,  a  Monarch 
of  the  back-shop,  he  won  his  supremacy  by  the  till,  and 
he  allowed  none  to  infringe  his  laws.  At  eleven  gaiety 
ceased  in  his  Pump  Room,  even  if  a  Royal  Prince  would 
prolong  a  dance.  In  the  magniloquent  phrase  of 
Oliver  Goldsmith,  who  wrote  his  biography:  "Regu- 
larity repressed  pride,  and  that  lessened,  people  of 
fortune  became  fit  for  society."  Fit  for  their  own, 
perhaps  :  but  it  may  be  doubted  whether  Nash 
introduced  into  his  world  a  single  habit  of  elegance. 
In  his  own  person  display  usurped  the  place  of 
taste.  His  dress  was  tawdry  and  of  a  mixed  fashion  ; 
the  only  mark  of  individuality  was  a  white  hat, 
though  his  chariot  and  six  greys  won  him  some 
notoriety.  Yet  he  watched  the  decline  of  many 
reputations,  the  defeat  of  unnumbered  modes.  "  He 
had  seen  flaxen  bobs  succeeded  by  majors"  (so  says  his 
biographer),  "  which  in  their  turn  gave  way  to  negli- 
gents,  which  were  at  last  totally  routed  by  bags  and 
ramilies."  But  not  even  this  vast  experience  availed 
to  save  him  from  penury  and  disgrace.  His  end  was 
squalid,  and  the  squalor  was  not  undeserved  ;  yet  he 
interpreted  life  to  thousands  of  his  countrymen,  and 
he  was  called  a  Beau  by  the  generation  which  had 
witnessed  the  splendour  of  Bolingbroke. 

So  life  became  the  popular  art  of  the  Eighteenth 
Century,  practised  by  many  with  knowledge,  by  few 
with  eminent  success.     Now,  a  grandiose  manner  was 


16  INTRODUCTION 

esteemed  by  such  heroes  as  Chesterfield  as  the  one  and 
only  aim  of  existence,  and  he  was  abundantly  justified  of 
his  opinion.  But  not  content  with  action,  Chesterfield 
was  impelled  to  preach;  and  so  he  stands  forth  as  the 
supreme  critic  of  his  craft,  whose  ambition  it  was 
to  convert  a  delicate  art  into  an  austere  science. 
Nash  thought  to  make  the  first-comer  a  gentleman  by 
asking  him  for  a  subscription  ;  Chesterfield  hoped  that 
the  grand  manner  might  be  imparted  by  a  treatise. 
And  Chesterfield  failed,  as  Nash  failed,  as  all  fail  who 
believe  that  artifice  will  supply  gifts  denied  by  nature. 
Philip  Stanhope  died  a  worthy  young  man,  who  had 
never  learnt  (in  shame  be  it  spoken)  to  enter  a  room 
with  dignity.  His  father  was  abashed  at  the  failure, 
but  he  was  forgiving  all  the  same,  and  his  forgiveness 
might  be  remembered  by  those  angry  moralists  who 
have  chosen  Chesterfield  as  a  pack-horse  for  all  the 
vices.  Indeed,  never  had  nobleman  been  more  un- 
fortunate. Resolved  upon  the  education  of  his  son, 
he  sacrificed  those  hours  of  leisure  which  might  have 
been  engrossed  by  the  dice-box,  that  Philip  Stanhope 
should  learn  to  speak  and  to  bear  himself  with  some- 
thing of  his  father's  splendour.  Pedant  as  he  was,  he 
might  have  remembered  the  Latin  adage — nascitur  non 
fit — and  refrained  from  his  Sisyphean  labour.  He  might 
also  have  reflected  that  some  secrets  are  valuable  only 
to  those  who  discover  them,  and  left  his  son  to  grow 
up  the  good-hearted  churl  that  he  was. 

But  with  Chesterfield  zeal  outran  discretion;  and 
we,  at  any  rate,  should  be  grateful  for  the  zeal.    For  if 


THE  GOSPEL  OF  CHESTERFIELD     17 

Chesterfield  failed  at  one  point,  at  another  he  achieved 
a  splendid  triumph.  He  set  out  to  educate  his  son, 
and  he  revealed  himself,  so  that  we  know  him  better 
than  any  of  his  contemporaries.  His  ideal  of  a  man 
was  "  a  Corinthian  edifice  upon  a  Tuscan  foundation  j" 
and  it  must  be  confessed  that  the  foundation  was  in 
his  eyes  far  less  important  than  the  edifice.  In  other 
words,  he  was  a  true  Corinthian,  who  worshipped 
the  Graces,  those  accessories  of  manner  and  presenta- 
tion which  exert  more  influence  in  the  world  than 
mere  intellect.  As  he  would  base  his  own  actions 
upon  self-love,  as  he  boldly  declared  that  "he  who 
loves  himself  best  is  the  honestest  man,"  so  he  would 
win  the  approval  of  other  men,  and  he  would  win  that 
approval  by  an  elegance  of  bearing,  an  invariable  dignity 
of  conduct.  "  The  Graces,  the  Graces,"  he  writes  to 
his  son  :  "  remember  the  Graces  !  "  And  that  cry 
from  the  heart  represents  his  philosophy.  To  these 
mysterious  qualities  he  attributes  the  success  of  the 
Duke  of  Marlborough.  "  Of  all  the  men  that  ever 
I  knew  in  my  life,"  says  he,  "  the  late  Duke  of  Marl- 
borough possessed  the  Graces  in  the  highest  degree,  not 
to  say  engrossed  them."  So  the  conqueror  of  Blenheim 
atoned  for  all  his  manifold  faults  of  English  spelling, 
and  intelligence.  He  had  the  Graces  !  Wherefore 
Europe  fell  before  him,  and  poor  Philip  Stanhope 
perhaps  dreamt  in  his  exile  that  when  once  he  could 
sit  down  and  rise  up  like  a  gentleman  the  most  brilliant 
victories  were  also  within  his  reach. 

Yet    Chesterfield's    theory  was    indubitably  sound. 

B 


18  INTRODUCTION 

Whatever    was    awkward,    either    in    gesture    or    in 
speech,  was   distasteful   to   him  ;  he  shrank  in  horror 
from  failure,  and  would  attempt  nothing  which  could 
not    be    achieved  with    simplicity  and  elegance.     He 
too,    like    Alcibiades,    condemned    the    flute    as    an 
instrument  which  no  self-respecting  man  could  play  ; 
only   to  the   flute  he   added  the  fiddle.     He  detested 
laughter  as  bitterly  as  Philip   IV.  or    Spain,  and    he 
declared  with  pride  that  none  had  seen  him  express  his 
hilarity  by  aught  more  violent  than  a  smile.    The  same 
sense  of  proportion   made  him  conceal  his  knowledge 
with  a  rare  modesty.     "Wear  your  learning,"  said  he 
in  an  admirable   phrase,  "like  your  watch,  in  a  private 
pocket."      Similarly,    like    the    Dandies    of    another 
generation,  he  preached  a   perfect  simplicity  in  dress. 
"  Let  your  dress  be  never  spoken  of,"  he  urged,  "  as 
either  too  negligent  or  too  much  studied."    Horseplay 
and  pleasure — that  is,  pleasure  as  it  was  interpreted  by 
the  Macaronis — were  alike  distasteful  to  him  ;  on  the 
other  hand,  he  was  never  averse  from  gallantry,  and  he 
welcomed  all  such  recreation  as  could  be  pursued  with 
dignity.     Not   unnaturally  he  hated  the   country,  and 
he  loathed  field-sports.     His  will  imposed  a  fine  upon 
his  heir  should  he  frequent  Newmarket,  and  shooting 
he  condemned  in  a  characteristic  phrase.    "  Eat  game," 
said  he,  "but  do  not   be  your  own  butcher  and  kill 
it."     In  brief,  his  hobbies  were  conversation  and  fine 
company  ;  therefore  he  loved  capitals,  and   it  was  not 
until  deafness  overtook  him  that  he   settled  down  at 
Blackheath  to  solitude  and  the  cultivation  of  his  garden. 


WALPOLE  A  DILETTANTE  19 

Such  was  his  admirable  ideal  of  life,  more  Corin- 
thian than  Tuscan  maybe,  but  always  dignified  and 
ornate.  He  was  a  sort  of  Louis  XIV.  tempered  by 
Voltaire's  restrained  veracity.  He  adored  wit,  but  no 
wit  would  persuade  him  to  be  seen  without  his  wig. 
He  was  worldly,  of  course  ;  but  then  he  lived  in  the 
world,  and  thought  that  retirement  meant  death. 
"  Tyrawley  and  I,"  said  he  in  a  pretty  epigram,  "  have 
been  dead  these  two  years,  but  we  do  not  want  it 
known."  Yet  he  has  acquired,  in  his  own  despite,  a 
reputation  for  villany,  which,  though  it  would  not  vex 
him,  would  certainly  astonish  him.  His  detractors 
are  annoyed  that  he  did  not  applaud  the  practice  of  the 
homely  virtues.  In  his  own  phrase  he  left  that  to 
the  excellent  Mr.  Haste  or  to  Dr.  Dodd.  And  his 
detractors  display  a  lamentable  lack  of  humour  when 
they  ask  this  worldling  to  mount  the  pulpit.  Would 
they  expect  a  lecture  on  the  Graces  from  their  favourite 
preacher  ? 

Chesterfield,  then,  was  an  artist  for  whom  life  was 
an  affair  of  external  accomplishment  and  scrupulous 
restraint.  And  in  his  own  kind  he  remains  without  a 
rival.  Horace  Walpole,  who  stretches  an  accidental 
hand  from  Chesterfield  to  the  Dandies,  was  less  happily 
inspired.  For  he  was  an  amateur  even  in  his  life  ; 
he  was  so  refined  a  dilettante  that  even  his  enjoyment 
smacks  of  insincerity.  The  multiplicity  of  his  interests 
imperilled  them  all.  He  must  needs  print  little  books 
at  his  little  press,  and  exalt  the  literary  indiscretions  of 
kings.     When   his  friends  visited  him   he  would    fire 


20  INTRODUCTION 

off*  a  popgun,  as  it  were  a  royal  salute  of  welcome. 
But  for  all  his  wit  and  amiability  he  was  a  coxcomb 
rather  than  a  beau  ;  he  was  too  careless  of  his  appear- 
ances ;  he  looked  upon  life  more  lightly  than  he  looked 
upon  literature  ;  his  manners  were  marked  by  an  easy 
familiarity,  as  far  removed  from  the  dignity  of  Chester- 
field as  from  the  stern  inflexibility  of  Brummel.  Yet 
he  forms  a  pleasant  interlude  in  the  history  of  manners, 
and  gives  us  a  momentary  pause  before  we  consider 
the  marvellous  achievement  of  the  greatest  artist 
among  them  all — George  Brummel. 

Other  heroes  have  wasted  their  powers  in  uncertain 
experiment  ;  they  have  fumbled  uselessly  in  the  search 
after  their  true  talent.  But  George  Brummel  came 
into  his  inheritance  while  still  a  boy  ;  he  never  for 
a  moment  was  anything  but  a  Dandy.  In  truth  he 
has  made  the  title  his  own,  and  other  men  claim  it 
merely  because  they  believe  themselves  illuminated  by 
a  spark  of  BrummePs  genius.  He  might  have  been  a 
soldier  or  a  politician ;  he  might,  perchance,  have 
been  a  wit ;  but  war  was  as  distasteful  to  him  as 
affairs,  and  with  that  perfect  consistency  which  marks 
only  the  greatest  of  men,  he  devoted  himself  to  the 
unique  cultivation  of  himself.  The  sole  end  and  aim 
of  his  career  was  to  present  George  Brummel  to  the 
world  as  the  type  of  grandeur  and  superiority.  His 
biographer,  the  best  that  hero  was  ever  blessed  withal, 
puts  him  in  a  niche  apart,  because  he  never  compli- 
cated his  vanity  by  the  larger  ambition  which  animates 
kings  and  rulers.     Richelieu,  says  Barbey  d'Aurevilly, 


BRUMMEL'S  SUPERIORITY  21 

might  have  been  a  Dandy,  and  was  not,  because  he 
was  also  a  statesman.  Maybe,  the  paradox  is  pressed 
too  far  ;  the  greatest  Minister  might,  perchance,  be  a 
Dandy  in  his  hours  of  ease  ;  but  we  will  not  quarrel 
with  a  paradox  which  exalts  thus  magnificently  the 
throne  of  Brummel. 

Brummel,  then,  was  to  himself  a  work  of  art, 
which  should  be  embellished  by  perfect  manners, 
perfect  taste,  and  a  cunning  tailor  ;  nor  is  it  surprising 
that  the  finished  work  inspired  the  whole  of  English 
society  with  an  admiring  awe.  Moreover,  he  was 
no  mere  theorist,  he  was  an  inventor  as  well.  In 
the  matter  of  clothes,  he  was  what  the  Germans 
would  call  epoch-making.  He  arrived  at  the  moment 
when  the  democratic  spirit  had  killed  elegance.  The 
Revolution  had  done  its  work,  and  Charles  Fox,  him- 
self a  Dandy  of  the  second  class,  had  preached  the 
doctrine  of  equality.  The  old  picturesqueness  was 
dead  ;  the  cocked  hat  had  been  vanquished  by  the 
topper  ;  and  Brummel  had  no  less  a  task  than  to 
construct  a  noble  costume  from  this  wreckage  of 
republican  principles.  And  what  a  poor  material  had 
he  whereon  to  work  !  A  coat,  a  waistcoat,  and  a  pair 
of  trousers  !  Yet  he  was  no  fanatic  to  restore  the 
ancient  mode  ;  his  greatness  consisted  in  the  proper 
adaptation  of  the  poor  materials  left  to  his  hand.  He 
did  not  neglect  their  shape  and  contour  ;  but  that  their 
poverty  of  design  might  be  less  noticed,  he  drew  off 
the  attention  to  the  cravat. 

This,  indeed,  was  the  masterpiece  of  his  invention. 


22  INTRODUCTION 

The  cravat  of  Brummel  was  the  envy  of  crowned 
heads  ;  yet  nothing  could  have  been  more  simple.  It 
was  half-starched,  and  it  went  twice  round  ;  its  glory 
began  and  ended  in  the  perfect  arrangement  of  its 
folds  ;  and  Brummel  was  so  delicate  an  artist  that  he 
discarded  a  cravat  which  was  not  flawless  at  the  first 
attempt.  He  would  insult  neither  himself  nor  his 
cravat  by  a  second  trial,  and  the  famous  story  is  a 
proper  index  of  his  greatness.  A  friend  one  day 
encountered  his  valet  on  the  stairs  carrying  with  him 
a  tray-full  of  discarded  cravats.  "  What  are  these  ?  " 
asked  the  eager  friend,  with  half  a  hope  that  he  might 
penetrate  a  long-kept  secret.  "  These,"  replied  the 
valet,  "are  some  of  our  failures."  And  in  that  simple 
phrase  did  Brummel  reveal  his  true,  imperishable 
temperament. 

The  hours  which  other  men  devote  to  aimless 
politics  and  irrelevant  intrigue  Brummel  devoted  fear- 
lessly to  himself  and  his  mirror.  His  ingenuity  and 
sense  of  elegance  were  concentrated  upon  himself. 
His  person  was  the  field  of  battle  where  he,  the 
general,  routed  his  adversaries — bad  taste  and  awk- 
wardness. His  costume,  devised  by  himself,  was  in- 
variable and  worthy  of  exact  record.  In  the  morning, 
then,  he  wore  Hessians  and  pantaloons,  or  top-boots 
and  buckskins,  and  a  light  or  bufF-coloured  waistcoat. 
His  evening  dress  was  a  blue  coat  and  a  white  waist- 
coat, black  pantaloons  which  buttoned  tight  to  the 
ankles,  striped  silk  stockings,  and  opera-hat.  His 
greatest  pride  was  the  tight  pantaloons  which  displayed 


'EXQUISITE  PROPRIETY'  23 

at  night  the  shapeliness  of  his  leg.  These,  indeed, 
were  cut  to  his  own  design,  and  it  is  not  remarkable 
that  the  Regent  followed  the  Dandy's  mode  in  this 
and  other  particulars.  "  The  finest  gentleman  in 
Europe  "  would  sit  for  hours  and  hours  in  Chesterfield 
Street,  watching  the  peerless  Brummel  at  work  ;  yet 
all  the  watching  in  the  world  could  not  teach  the 
elegances,  and  the  Regent  never  legitimately  rivalled 
the  Dandy,  at  whose  ruin  he  jealously  connived. 

Now,  Brummel  was  the  direct  descendant  from 
Chesterfield  in  the  line  of  beaux,  and  it  is  not  remark- 
able that  his  slender  library  contained  a  copy  of  the 
Earl's  Letters.  He,  too,  might  have  exclaimed,  "the 
Graces,  the  Graces,  remember  the  Graces  !  "  For  his 
days  were  loyally  given  to  their  worship,  and  no  man 
ever  practised  more  sedulously  what  Chesterfield 
preached.  His  two  ambitions  were  cleanliness  and 
correction  ;  and  he  was  so  finished  a  master  of  his 
craft  that  he  could  always  elude  notice  between 
Chesterfield  Street  and  White's.  And  he  eluded  notice 
because  he  fitted  the  landscape  with  delicate  exacti- 
tude. In  Regent  Street  his  pantaloons  might  have 
cried  aloud.  They  belonged  to  the  scenery  of  Pic- 
cadilly. 

So  it  is  that  Byron,  a  lifelong  worshipper,  spoke 
the  truth  when  he  said  that  there  was  nothing 
remarkable  in  Brummel's  appearance  save  its  "ex- 
quisite propriety."  Starched  cravats  and  varnished 
boots  might  seem  to  be  within  the  reach  of  all 
men  j    yet  in   these  accomplishments    Brummel    was 


24  INTRODUCTION 

without  a  rival.  His  cravat  was  perfect  because  he 
touched  it  with  his  own  magic  fingers.  His  boots 
were  perfect  because,  like  the  statues  in  a  Greek 
pediment,  they  were  as  highly  finished  where  they 
were  not  seen  as  on  their  polished  surface.  But  the 
smallest  detail  was  so  nicely  calculated  that  a  mistake 
was  impossible.  The  foolish  man  reproached  Brummel 
with  a  lack  of  manners  because  he  found  it  impossible 
to  dofF  his  hat  to  a  lady.  But  it  was  the  work  of 
many  minutes  and  much  thought  with  the  Dandy  to 
pose  his  hat  at  the  right  angle  ;  and  who  so  vain  as  to 
demand  its  removal  when  once  it  was  set  as  a  crown 
upon  those  auburn  locks  ?  To  some  the  head  is  a 
receptacle  of  intelligence  ;  for  Brummel  it  was  a  block 
to  sustain  the  perfect  hat. 

The  world  has  misjudged  Brummel,  as  it  misjudged 
Chesterfield,  because  it  has  sought  qualities  which 
were  alien  to  his  character.  He  was  heartless,  perhaps; 
but,  then,  he  was  not  concerned  with  affairs  of  the  heart. 
Women  hated  him,  especially  such  women  as  Harriett 
Wilson,  because,  as  Captain  Jesse  says  in  a  solitary 
moment  of  insight,  "  he  must  have  inspired  her  with 
une  jalousie  de  femme  a  femme — a  woman  can  hardly  be 
expected  to  forgive  a  man  for  being  more  elegant 
than  herself."  Moreover,  it  was  his  business  to 
inspire  admiration  rather  than  friendship,  and  for  this 
reason  there  was  none — not  even  the  admirable  Scrope 
— who  would  break  his  fall.  But  if  he  had  no  heart, 
and  not  too  much  of  the  discursive  talent  called  intelli- 
gence,   he    was  gifted    with    a    sturdy    wit — not    too 


THE  FLIGHT  TO  CALAIS  25 

refined,  it  is  true,  but  effective  enough  against  the 
stupidity  of  his  foes.  Outside  his  personal  decoration 
the  one  achievement  of  his  life  was  the  question  he 
put  to  Alvanley  when  the  Regent  cut  him  at  the 
Dandies'  Ball.  "  Who's  your  fat  friend  ?  "  he 
demanded  in  an  immortal  phrase — a  phrase  for  which 
it  was  worth  while  to  live  and  die. 

But  in  all  encounters,  he  had  a  natural  superiority, 
which  depended  not  upon  judgment  or  wit  or  the 
faculty  of  repartee.  He  was  great  because  he  had  the 
supreme  gift  of  presentation  ;  he  stood  before  society  so 
exactly  poised,  so  marvellously  apparelled,  that  power 
and  intellect  shrank  before  his  gaze.  He  shared  the 
worst  vice  of  his  time  :  he  was  a  gambler  ;  or  his 
magnificence  might  have  appeared  inhuman  ;  and  it 
is  very  certain  that,  if  his  flight  to  Calais  had  not 
been  imperative,  he  would  still  have  braved  London 
in  security,  even  in  triumph.  But  you  must  seek 
the  course  of  his  success  in  such  details  as  do  not 
crush  empires  or  exalt  kings.  The  memory  of  Napo- 
leon suggests  the  glory  of  the  Italian  Campaign.  It 
is  an  important  event  in  the  career  of  Brummel  that 
he  polished  his  teeth  with  red  root. 

Yet  the  journey  to  Calais  was  but  a  crown  to  the 
Dandy's  greatness.  He  had  already  proved  how  much 
might  be  achieved  by  the  grand  manner,  for,  being  a 
Dandy,  he  had  taken  snuff" ;  and  no  man  ever  dared  to 
say  that  he  inelegantly  besmirched  himself.  But  then 
he  hud  framed  rules  for  the  management  of  a  snuff- 
box, as  he  had  framed  rules  for  the   architecture  of  a 


26  INTRODUCTION 

cravat.  The  box,  said  he,  must  be  held  and  opened 
in  the  same  hand  ;  and  the  box  must  change  with  the 
season.  Though  a  trifle  in  blue  Sevres  was  admirable 
for  the  summer,  it  would  make  a  chilly  appearance 
in  December,  and  could  not  then  be  tolerated. 
However,  Brummel  cut  a  magnificent  figure  when 
London  was  at  his  feet,  and  he  displayed  in  adversity 
a  loftiness  of  soul  for  which  none  of  his  few  friends 
gave  him  credit.  Poor  and  forsaken,  he  proved  that 
a  Dandy  may  be  a  hero  even  in  the  common  sense  of 
the  word. 

The  Regent  deserted  him  in  a  fit  of  bitter  jealousy, 
and  the  snobs  of  London  followed  the  Regent ;  but 
Brummel,  still  unabashed,  did  the  honours  of  Great 
Britain  in  a  modest  hotel  at  Calais.  He  received 
exalted  visitors  with  the  condescension  of  an  ambas- 
sador ;  he  deigned  to  embellish  a  tranquil  life  with 
the  charity  of  acquaintances.  Greville,  who  had  little 
sympathy  with  what  Barbey  d'  Aurevilly  calls  Brum- 
mel's  majestic  frivolity,  sketched  him  as  truthfully 
as  he  could.  "  I  found  him,"  said  the  Clerk  of 
the  Council,  "in  his  old  lodging,  dressing;  some 
pretty  pieces  of  old  furniture  in  the  room,  an  entire 
toilet  of  silver,  and  a  large  green  macaw  perched  on 
the  back  of  a  tattered  silk  chair  with  faded  gilding, 
full  of  gaiety,  impudence,  and  misery." 

It  is  a  fine  picture  of  heroism ;  yet  at  Calais 
Brummel  was  on  the  mere  threshold  of  misfortune, 
and  it  is  to  his  eternal  glory  that  neither  an  empty 
pocket  nor  a  failing  mind  destroyed  his  gaiety  or  his 


THE  BEAU'S  WATERLOO  27 

impudence.  His  flight  from  Calais  is  like  the  retreat 
of  a  general  overcome  by  superior  odds.  When  once 
he  was  at  Caen,  defeat  was  inevitable  and  bravely 
borne.  That  which  to  another  was  a  light  affront 
was  for  Brummel  a  blow  dealt  to  his  shaken  pride. 
Poverty  robbed  him  of  all  the  delicacies  which  made 
life  a  reality.  He  was  like  a  soldier  debarred  from 
the  battle-field,  like  a  poet  deprived  of  solitude,  ink 
and  paper.  Yet  he  fought  for  his  dignity  unto  the 
last  ditch,  and  he  endured  defeat  with  the  imper- 
turbability wherewith  he  had  smiled  on  victory.  He 
still  spent  several  hours  at  his  toilet,  though  a  provincial 
town  of  France  was  a  poor  opportunity  of  display,  but 
thus,  as  always,  he  pursued  his  art,  with  little  thought 
of  the  world's  opinion.  He  seldom  complained,  and 
even  when  he  did  he  complained  with  a  touch  of 
the  ancient  grandeur.  "  My  old  friend,  King  Allen," 
he  writes  to  Alvanley,  "has  promised  to  send  me 
some  habiliments  for  my  body,  denuded  like  a  new- 
born infant — and  what  a  Beau  I  once  was  !  "  That  is 
a  note  of  sorrow,  bravely  sounded  ;  and  it  is  only  the 
first  note  of  his  sorrow.  When  charity  came  it  came 
in  so  harsh  a  guise  that  it  hurt  his  pride  and  wrought 
no  benefit.  At  the  last  gasp  for  the  necessities  of  life, 
he  asked  for  a  shawl  dressing-gown.  They  gave  him 
a  gown  of  cotton.  What  could  he  but  fling  it  out  of 
window  ? 

1835  was  his  Waterloo.  In  that  year  he  was 
arrested,  and,  worse  still,  obliged  to  dress  before  the 
police.     This  might  have  seemed   the   last   insult  to 


28  INTRODUCTION 

one  who  had  never  revealed  the  secrets  of  his  toilet  to 
any  save    his   own    Prince   Regent.     For  a  moment 
even  his  courage  failed,  but  he  speedily  recovered  him- 
self, and  he  had  not  been  many  hours  under  lock  and 
key  when  he    "  descended    into   the  debtor's   court," 
to  quote  Jesse,  "with  his  neckcloth  as  white  and  well 
tied,  his  hat  smoothed  to  a  hair,  and  his  whole  exterior 
as  perfect  as  if  he  had  been  going  to  pay  a  morning  visit." 
Did  Napoleon  show  a  grander  spirit  than  that  when  he 
threw  himself,  proud  and  imperial,  upon  the  mercy  of 
his  enemies  ?     But  Brummel's  Waterloo  was  the  pre- 
lude to  a  bitter  series  of  defeats.     True,  his  liberation 
was   a  triumph,  which  restored  for  a  day  all  the  won- 
derful  gaiety  of  the  past.      "  C'est   aujourd'hui,"   he 
wrote  to  a  friend,  "le  plus  heureux  jour  de  ma  vie,  car 
je  suis  sorti  de  prison,  et  j'ai  mange  du  saumon."    The 
happiness,  however,  was  an  interlude,  and  soon  broken. 
The  monsters  who  dispensed  the  charity  of  his  friends 
were  cruel  and  close-fisted.   Piece  by  piece  they  deprived 
him  of  all  the  simple  frivolities,  which  meant  nothing 
to  their  drab  souls,  but  which  to  poor  Brummel  were 
the  salt  of  life.     One  day  we  find  him  writing  to  his 
hard-hearted  paymaster:  "I  have  never  trespassed  upon 
the  rules  of  economy  which  you  have  dictated  to  me, 
except  in  one  instance,  and  that  has  been  that  damned, 
execrable   blacking.      I   have  now   relinquished  it  for 
ever."     Poor  devil  !  what  was  Brummel  without  the 
blacking,   which  had   made  his   boots  the  wonder  of 
Europe  ?     And  a  yet  bitterer  humiliation  was  in  store 
for  him.     Hard,  grinding  poverty  compelled  him  to 


THE  DEATH  OF  BRUMMEL  29 

exchange  the  white  tie  which  was  his  own  invention, 
and  had  been  his  greatest  glory,  for  a  black  silk  cravat ! 
Yet  he  did  not  falter  ;  he  made  a  masterpiece  of  black 
silk  and  for  a  while  was  content  with  his  handiwork. 
Then  came  the  crowning  dishonour.  As  a  symbol  of 
elegance,  he  had  still  cherished  a  passion  for  maraschino 
and  biscuits  de  Rheims.  Maybe  he  cared  little  for  the 
sweetmeats  ;  but  they  represented  a  vanished  luxury, 
and  to  satisfy  this  whimsical  taste  he  pawned  his 
jewels ;  and  when  all  the  jewels  were  pawned,  he 
surrendered  the  last  poor  embellishment  of  a  tragic 
career,  and  sank  to  the  miserable  slovenliness  of  an 
imbecile.  It  is  a  heart-breaking  end,  only  relieved 
by  the  fashion  of  the  beau's  madness.  In  imbecility 
Brummel  was  still  grandiose,  and  during  his  last  days 
he  would  light  candles  in  his  desert  room,  and  hold 
phantom  receptions  to  all  the  great  personages  who 
once  begged  his  favour.  So  he  lived,  great  in  courage, 
as  he  was  great  in  elegance,  the  martyr  to  an  unkind 
society.  The  man  who  invents  a  new  screw  or  a  fancy 
piston  is  secured  against  poverty.  Brummel's  service 
to  the  cravat  could  be  translated  into  no  reward  of 
money.  And  he  died  without  a  pension,  without  the 
humble  solace  of  biscuits  de  Rbeims  and  maraschino. 

Brummel's  was  so  masterful  a  type  that  in  his  single 
person  he  included  all  the  Dandies.  Yet,  if  he  knew 
no  rivals,  he  was  at  least  followed  by  a  mob  of  imitators, 
who  exaggerated  his  qualities  into  vice.  And  they  are 
not  too  amiable,  these  other  Dandies  of  the  Regency. 
But   they  retained   the   friendship  of  the  Prince,  who 


30  INTRODUCTION 

had  gladly  suffered  Brummel's  exile,  and  at  last  they  pre- 
tended to  a  political  influence.   When  George  IV.  found 
that  his  coronation  would  be  disturbed  by  riot,  his  first 
care,  says   Lord  Lamington,  was  to  discover  what  was 
the  feeling  of  the  Dandies.     Hearing   it  was  against 
him,  "I   care  nothing  for  the    mob,"  he  exclaimed, 
"  but  I  do  for  the  Dandies  !  "     Wherefore  he  enter- 
tained them  at  breakfast,  and  so  recovered  their  friend- 
ship.   But  this  anecdote  reveals  the  Dandies'  decadence. 
You   cannot  imagine  Brummel    seduced   by  an   invi- 
tation,   which    his   arrogance    would    probably    have 
declined.    Moreover,  Brummel's  successors,  as  Gronow 
tells  us,  were  guilty  of  three  faults  :   they  loved   snuff, 
puns,  and  practical  jokes.     Their  lack  of  ingenuity  is 
abundantly   proved  by  Whites'  Betting  Book,  and  if 
they    had    hazarded    fifty   pounds    upon   the   death  or 
marriage  of  a  friend  they  thought  they  had  achieved  a 
masterpiece  of  humour.     The  man  who  had   known 
Brummel    grew  into  a  bore,   and,  what  is  worse,   a 
solemn   bore,  who  cursed  more  than  he  laughed,  and 
who  cultivated  the  obsolete  slang  of  his  master.     So 
that  when  the  incomparable  D'Orsay  introduced  a  more 
humane  artifice  of  life,  the  world  was  reasonably  con- 
tent.    For  D'Orsay  was  a  Dandy  among  Dandies,  but 
he  was  besides  a  gentleman  of  incomparable  wit  and 
fancy,  and  it  was  the  good  fortune  of  another   man  of 
genius,    Benjamin   Disraeli,  that    he    learnt   the  first 
lessons  of  life  from  the  lively  lover  of  Lady  Blessington. 
Indeed,  D'Orsay  occupies  a  separate  throne,  which 
he  claims  not  only  by  elegance,  but  by  artistry.     His 


D'ORSAY  31 

sympathies  were  as  wide  as  his  famous  shirt-front,  and 
had  he  not  professed  to  glitter  as  a  man  of  fashion,  he 
might  have  come  down  the  ages  as  a  poet  or  sculptor. 
Yet  his  preference  was  justified,  and  we  can  spare 
many  blocks  of  unhewn  marble  for  the  vision  of 
D'Orsay  upon  his  well-bred  steed.  Above  all  he  had 
the  genius  of  appreciation.  None  of  his  friends  ever 
won  a  trivial  success  without  the  reward  of  a  just  and 
deftly  turned  compliment.  His  achievement,  then, 
was  broader,  less  concentrated  than  Brummel's.  And 
when  defeat  came  upon  him — defeat  less  bitter  than 
that  which  overwhelmed  the  great  Dandy — he  endured 
it  with  all  his  old  serenity  and  light-heartedness.  He 
even  found  a  certain  drollery  in  the  siege  of  Gore 
House,  when  all  the  week  his  creditors  kept  him  a 
close  prisoner.  But  as  the  clock  struck  midnight  on 
Saturday  he  would  go  forth  to  Crockford's  in  his 
bravery,  throwing  a  brilliant  smile  or  a  word  of  flattery 
to  the  least  and  greatest  of  his  friends.  And  when  at 
last  grief  and  old  age  vanquished  him,  he  accepted  the 
inevitable  as  a  man  should.  Lord  Lamington  gives 
us  a  glimpse  of  the  hero's  declining  days.  He  found 
his  room  draped  with  black,  his  bed  and  window 
shrouded  with  curtains  of  the  same  sable  hue,  and  all 
about  him  souvenirs  of  the  lady  whom  he  loved  and 
mourned.  That  is  not  the  end  of  the  true  Dandy, 
who,  in  defeat  as  in  prosperity,  should  remain  an  egoist. 
D'Orsay  was  but  a  figure  of  accident  in  a  sentimental 
age,  and  after  the  flight  of  Brummel  elegance  was  a 
rare    and    furtive    virtue.       Under    George    IV.,   the 


32  INTRODUCTION 

smartest  of  Regents  and  vulgarest  of  monarchs,  under 
William  IV.,  the  shrewdest  of  sea-captains  and  not 
quite  the  stupidest  of  kings,  life  was  cultivated  less 
ardently  than  politics.  Reform  cast  a  shadow  upon 
gaiety  and  imagination  ;  men  like  Greville,  born  for 
Newmarket  and  frivolity,  were  driven  down  the  back- 
stairs of  political  intrigue,  and  though  we  may  be  cer- 
tain that  the  Duke  of  York  did  his  best  to  uphold  the 
honourable  tradition,  there  was  no  industrious  historian 
to  record  the  prowess  of  his  light-hearted  companions. 
And  to-day  is  Dandyism  dead  ?  Has  it  perished 
beneath  the  weight  of  uniformity  ?  Is  it  eclipsed  by 
the  brilliant  light  which  beats  upon  its  throne  from  a 
thousand  newspaper  offices  ?  Maybe  it  is  not  dead  ; 
most  assuredly  it  is  obscured.  It  faces  a  harder  task 
than  that  which  confronted  Brummel.  A  common 
frock  coat  is  a  more  stubborn  material  than  the  blue 
coat  and  Hessians  which  distinguished  the  greatest  of 
all  Dandies.  Moreover,  it  is  difficult  to  shine  with 
an  exclusive  radiance  in  a  world  where  nothing  is 
hidden  from  the  vulgar  gaze.  A  modern  interviewer 
would  look  down  Brummel's  chimney  for  the  secret  of 
his  incomparable  cravat.  If  D'Orsay  were  alive  to-day 
he  could  not  leave  Kensington  Gore  without  being 
tracked  by  a  hundred  eager  spies.  His  dress  and  occu- 
pations would  be  noted  in  so  common  a  phrase  that  he 
would  straightway  be  driven  to  self-consciousness  and 
concealment.  But  there  is  no  need  to  despair  ;  there 
may  still  be  heroes  left  to  respect  the  grandiose  conven- 
tions of  life,  and  if  we  know  nothing  of  their  exploits, 


GUIDES  TO  THE  COURT  33 

if  their  sense  of  refinement  has  enabled  them  to  escape 
the  scrutiny  of  the  journal,  some  cunning  Greville  or 
industrious  Pepys  may  be  in  their  midst,  composing  an 
immortal  diary,  which  shall  hand  down  to  our  children's 
children  a  picture  of  our  vague,  yet  rarely  secret  time. 

But  the  supremacy  of  the  Beaux  is  as  transient  as  the 
conversation  of  the  Salon.  Where  the  effect  depends 
upon  the  set  of  the  coat,  the  glint  of  an  eye,  the  tone 
of  a  voice,  the  effect  dies  with  death,  and  it  is  a  mer 
reflection  of  the  past  that  is  flashed  upon  us.  One 
poor  shadow  is  cast  by  the  ancient  handbooks  to  the 
Court,  which  begin  with  Castiglione's  enchanting 
masterpiece  and  end  with  Chesterfield's  monument  of 
good  breeding.  But  with  a  few  exceptions  these 
learned  treatises  are  not  illuminating.  In  the  first 
place  they  are  but  the  application  of  science  to  art ;  in 
the  second  place  they  echo  from  one  to  the  other  a 
kind  of  bland  cynicism.  As  Macchiavelli  taught  the 
lesson  of  worldly  cunning  to  his  Prince,  so  the  many 
imitators  of  Castiglione  were  less  anxious  to  make  their 
courtiers  elegant  than  shrewd.  The  Courtier's  speediest 
road  of  advance,  says  one,  "is  to  insinuate  himself  into 
the  pleasures  of  his  Prince."  And  again  :  "  It  is  a 
prudent  part  in  a  Courtier  to  lose  sometimes  at  pJay 
on  purpose,  to  put  his  Master  in  a  good  humour."  In 
the  matter  of  dress  they  are  unanimous,  these  instructors 
of  deportment.  "A  gentleman  is  fine  enough  when 
he  is  black,  new,  and  neat."  That  maxim  may  be 
found  in  all  the  treatises  from  Castiglione  to  Chester- 
field.    But  Baltazzar  Castiglione  is  incomparably  the 

c 


34  INTRODUCTION 

wisest  and  the  most  amiable.  His  declaration  is  as 
clear  and  lucid  as  may  be  :  "  The  manners  and  car- 
riage of  a  man,  which  I  here  distinguish  from  his 
deeds,  give  us  in  a  great  measure  a  good  idea  of  him." 
Of  course  he  insists  upon  grace  and  skill  in  arms.  Of 
course  he  inculcates  that  negligence  or  concealment  of 
art,  which  has  always  seemed  the  mark  of  a  gentleman. 
He,  too,  declares  that  the  Courtier  should  "adore  the 
Prince,  whose  service  is  his  great  engagement."  But 
he  is  too  decorous  and  too  humane  to  urge  the  petty 
means  of  cajolery,  upon  which  his  successors  unscrupu- 
lously insist.  For  his  Courtier  must  be  polished,  as 
well  as  successful.  He  must  accept  the  teaching  of 
Plato,  and  study  music.  Yet  he  should  sternly  despise 
the  bold  front  of  the  professed  musician.  "  He  should 
perform,"  in  fact,  "as  a  matter  of  diversion,  and  be 
brought  to  it,  as  it  were,  by  constraint."  For  the  rest 
Castiglione  is  a  profound  philosopher,  with  views  not 
merely  upon  behaviour,  but  upon  the  virtues  of  a 
literary  style.  And  the  setting  of  his  argument  is  as 
romantic  as  Boccaccio's  own  garden  ;  in  brief,  he  is  as 
gay  and  cultivated  a  companion  as  man  can  wish  to 
have,  and  if  he  cannot  teach  the  impossible,  that  is  not 
his  fault,  but  the  fault  of  his  aspiration. 

Less  entertaining  and  far  more  practical  is  Francis 
Osborne's  Advice  to  a  Son^  which  holds  a  middle 
place  between  Castiglione  and  Chesterfield.  Now 
Francis  Osborne  was  half  a  moralist,  and  wholly  a 
man  of  the  world.  Yet  he  aims  less  at  grace  than  at 
seemly    conduct.      He    would    have    his    son    neatly 


THE  VALUE  OF  MEMOIRS  35 

habited,  "exceeding  rather  than  coming  short  of  others 
of  like  fortune  "  ;  he  would  have  him  always  pay  with 
ready  money,  and  "be  drawn  rather  where  you  find 
things  cheap  and  good  than  for  friendship  or  acquaint- 
ance." That  is  worldly  wisdom,  in  truth,  nor  will  his 
maxim  be  disputed  that  "next  to  clothes  a  good  horse 
becomes  a  gentleman."  And  here  again  he  adds  a  warn- 
ing against  being  cozened  for  the  profit  of  a  friend. 
But  his  fiercest  displeasure  is  reserved  for  sportsmen. 
"Who  can  put  too  great  a  scorn  upon  their  folly,"  says 
he,  "that  to  bring  home  a  rascal  deer,  or  a  few  rotten 
conies,  submit  their  lives  to  the  will  or  passion  of  such 
as  may  take  them  ?  "  In  this  passage  of  humorous 
contempt  he  agrees  with  the  great  Lord  Chesterfield, 
whom  he  rivals  in  prudence,  but  whose  worship  of  the 
Graces  he  could  never  have  appreciated. 

Another  and  a  more  vivid  reflection  is  flashed 
upon  us  by  the  "  Memoirs,"  which  fix  the  character  of 
the  time  in  a  faded  photograph.  The  newspapers  also 
fix  it,  after  their  fashion,  like  a  dead  butterfly  with  the 
pin  of  scandal  through  its  back.  However,  as  the 
solemn  documents,  stored  in  the  public  offices,  reveal 
the  serious  progress  of  history,  so  irresponsible  diaries 
and  reminiscences  give  us  some  poor  image  of  life's 
passing  pageant.  And  it  is  by  the  accident  of  genius 
that  we  know  one  period,  while  another  is  hidden  from 
our  view  ;  since  we  can  best  understand  a  period,  if  we 
know  one  man  who  played  a  part  in  it.  Our  know- 
ledge of  the  Restoration  is  due,  for  instance,  to  the  incom- 
parable Pepys,  that  man  of  genius  who  added  a  perfect 


36  INTRODUCTION 

sincerity  to  a  perfect  knowledge  of  himself.     And  thus 
we  arrive  at  the  first  qualification  of  him  who  would 
keep  a  diary.     He  must  know  himself  before  he  knows 
his  world  ;  and  to  know  oneself  is  the  most  difficult 
of  all  accomplishments.     Caelo  descendit,  jvmBl  ghivtov, 
said    the    satirist,    and    certainly   it  was  from  heaven 
that    the    maxim  should    have    descended.     Alas  !    it 
descends  but   seldom.     To    the    mass  of  men    know 
yourself  is  a  counsel  of  unrealised  perfection.     For  he 
who  knows  himself  knows  all  things ;  he  has  learnt  the 
value  of  that  mysterious  *,  which  shall  solve  the  equation 
of  life.     But  how  shall  we,  creatures  of  passing  moods, 
catch  each  mood  as  it  passes  ?     Death  and  the  lapse  of 
time  allow  our  friends  a  casual  comprehension  of  our 
waywardness.     But  we  never  get  far  enough  from  our 
own  images  for  a  sincere  judgment,  and  we  generally 
die  in  complete  ignorance  of  that  which  lies  nearest  to 
us.     The  history  of  the  world,  in  brief,  is  the  history 
of  failure   induced  by  the  lack  or  self-knowledge,  and 
we  cannot   but  believe  that   the    ancient  philosopher 
who  grimly  looked  out  at  his  fellows   from  his  attic 
window,  murmuring  yvwdi  orsawrov,  was  a  humorist 
in  disguise.     Yet  now  and  again  the  philosopher  who 
knows  himself  takes  pen  in  hand,  and  then  he  pierces 
other  mysteries  than  that  of  his  own  character. 

So  Pepys  and  Bassompierre  triumphed  where  Charles 
Greville,  most  zealous  of  diarists,  failed.  And  Greville 
failed  not  through  ignorance  but  by  half-knowledge. 
He  is  always  on  the  edge  of  success,  and  at  any  moment 
he  might  have  drawn  a  true  and  stirring  picture.     But 


CHARLES  GREVILLE  37 

a  kind  of  hesitancy,  a  false  pride  in  his  own  seriousness, 
which  was  of  no  account,  stayed  his  hand,  and  he  fell 
back  on  the  gossip  of  the  clubs.  He  exaggerates  the 
importance  of  politics,  as  Grammont  exaggerates  the 
importance  of  Maids  of  Honour,  while  Pepys  holds  the 
divine  balance  by  seeing  the  value  of  all  things.  Again, 
Greville  never  gives  you  the  aspect  and  gesture  of  his 
informant  ;  to  him  the  subtle  drama  of  gossip  is  lack- 
ing ;  while  Pepys,  by  setting  before  you  the  last  man 
or  woman  with  whom  he  spoke,  always  guards  the 
sympathy  of  his  reader.  Worse  still,  Greville  fails  in 
sincerity  :  he  is  desperately  anxious  to  conceal  his  true 
character,  not  only  from  his  reader,  but  from  himself. 
In  truth,  it  is  chiefly  by  regrets  that  the  true  Greville 
is  revealed,  but  his  repentance  is  never  grimly  humorous 
like  the  repentance  of  Pepys ;  rather  it  is  marked  by  a 
sadness  which  utterly  destroys  the  picturesque  effect. 

For  instance,  the  real  business  of  Greville's  life  was 
gambling  ;  he  lived  for  and  upon  Newmarket ;  he  knew 
the  world  of  trainers  and  jockeys  as  few  men  in  his 
time  knew  that  droll  and  entertaining  world.  But 
does  he  tell  you  one  secret  of  the  turf,  does  he  reveal 
one  characteristic  of  the  shady  sportsman  ?  Not  a  bit 
of  it.  The  Reform  Bill  chokes  him,  and  then  he  falls 
back  upon  a  dull  remorse.  "  All  last  week  at  Epsom," 
says  he  ;  "  and  now,  thank  God,  all  these  races  are  over. 
Nothing  but  the  hope  of  gain  would  induce  me  to  go 
through  this  demoralising  drudgery,  which  I  am  con- 
scious reduces  me  to  the  level  of  all  that  is  most  disre- 
spectable  and  despicable,  for  my  thoughts  are  eternally 


38  INTRODUCTION 

absorbed  by  it.  Jockeys,  trainers,  and  blacklegs  are  my 
companions,  and  it  is  like  dram-drinking  ;  having  once 
entered  upon  it  I  cannot  leave  it  off",  though  I  am 
disgusted  by  the  occupation  all  the  time."  Of  course 
he  could  not  leave  it  off;  of  course  his  thoughts  were 
eternally  absorbed.  But  why  did  he  not  tell  us  all 
about  it  ?  Why  did  he  not  sketch  for  us  the  trainers 
and  blacklegs,  as  Pepys  would  have  sketched  them  ? 
Then  he  too  would  have  given  us  a  real  page  from  the 
art  of  life.  But  his  insincerity  barred  the  road  of  truth. 
He  believed  himself  a  politician,  wben  he  was  some- 
thing far  rarer,  a  man  living  in  accord  with  his  own 
character. 

So  Boccaccio  set  vast  store  by  his  treatise  1)e 
Genealogia  Deorum,  and  believed  that  no  man  would 
ever  remember  his  marvellous  tales.  So  the  excellent 
musician,  sketched  by  Castiglione,  laid  aside  his 
instrument  and  gave  himself  up  to  poetry,  until  all  the 
world  laughed  at  him,  and  his  very  music  was  quite 
forgot.  And  so  Greville  with  an  equal  contempt  of 
himself  has  told  us  many  things  which  we  might 
have  found  out  elsewhere,  and  has  left  untold  that 
strange  record  of  pleasure  and  remorse  which  none 
of  his  age  had  the  courage  to  relate.  He  was,  in 
brief,  a  man  of  the  world  masquerading  as  a  prig  ; 
he  always  wanted  to  be  another  man,  and  it  is  of  the 
other  man  that  he  is  commonly  eloquent.  His  touches 
of  intimacy  are  so  rare  that  they  have  a  strangely  vivid 
effect  in  his  sombre  history.  "  Dined  with  the  Duke 
of    Wellington     yesterday  ;    thirty-one    people,    very 


THE  LAST  GOSSIP  39 

handsome,  and  the  Styrian  Minstrels  playing  and  sink- 
ing all  dinner-time,  a  thing  I  never  saw  before."  It 
is  not  much  ;  yet  we  would  not  exchange  it  for  a 
wilderness  of  political  intrigue  and  Reform  Bills. 
Greville,  in  fact,  had  many  amiable  gifts,  and  he  has 
bequeathed  us  a  valuable  book.  But  he  knew  so  little 
of  himself  that  the  rest  of  the  world  was  blurred  to  his 
vision,  and  he  is  not  a  rival  near  the  throne  of  Pepys. 
Yet  he  is  the  last  of  his  race,  the  last  gossip,  who 
believed  that  life  was  the  material  of  a  cunning  art. 
And  has  he  left  a  successor  ?  We  hope  so,  and  with 
a  fervent  unselfishness.  For  whoever  he  be  that  shall 
act  the  part  of  Pepys  to  our  own  generation,  we  shall 
never  contemplate  his  achievements,  since  it  is  the 
Beau's  penalty  that  he  shall  be  understood  only  when 
the  smile  is  dead  upon  his  face,  and  the  sparkling  jest  is 
silent  upon  his  withered  tongue. 


YOUNG    WESTON 


YOUNG    WESTON 

THE  King,  missing  his  stroke,  stumbled  clumsily 
upon  the  tennis-court ;  and,  gathering  up  his 
heavy  frame  with  difficulty,  strode  sullenly  within. 
"  Your  Grace,"  cried  Young  Weston,  chuckling  that 
another  game  was  his,  "  Your  Grace  shall  take  your 
revenge  with  the  dice-box."  But  Henry,  enraged  no 
less  at  his  waning  skill  than  at  the  loss  of  his  money, 
threw  not  a  word  at  his  smiling  favourite,  who  gazed 
imperturbable  at  the  retreating  corpulency. 

Young  Weston  chuckled  again.  Though  scarce 
sixteen  he  rode  upon  the  full  tide  of  fortune.  Admitted, 
at  an  age  when  most  boys  linger  at  school,  to  the 
friendship  of  his  Sovereign,  he  was  secure  that  neither 
extravagance  nor  indiscretion  could  check  his  progress. 
A  hundred  advantages  were  his  :  his  open  brow,  his 
clear  blue  eye,  his  burnished  hair  compelled  admira- 
tion, and  at  Court  he  was  already  a  famous  breaker  of 
hearts.  His  loose-knit  frame  united  the  suppleness  of 
youth  with  the  assured  strength  of  manhood  ;  and,  as 
no  exertion  seemed  too  great  for  him,  he  undertook 
the  most  desperate  adventure  with  a  light  heart  and  a 
lighter  hand.     He  was  an  easy  master  of  all  sports, 


44  YOUNG  WESTON 

nor  was  there  a  single  game  of  chance  whereat  his 
golden  luck  did  not  pursue  him.  To  see  him  on  horse- 
back was  to  think  of  Alexander  and  Bucephalus,  and 
though  neither  his  weight  nor  his  lack  of  judgment 
permitted  him  at  a  single  chase  to  tire  ten  steeds,  he 
rode  as  hard  and  as  straight  as  the  King  himself.  At 
tennis  he  knew  not  his  equal  in  Europe,  and,  as  he 
never  played  without  backing  his  skill,  a  comfortable 
income  was  assured  him  in  a  world  of  gamblers.  A 
courtier  born,  he  assumed  that  all  the  elegances  of  a 
refined  life  were  his  proper  birth-right,  and  he  was 
already  an  exquisite,  when  he  left  Surrey,  under  the 
Cardinal's  august  protection,  to  take  office  in  the 
King's  household.  A  ribbon  awry,  an  ill-cut  doublet 
were  a  lasting  offence  to  him  ;  the  taste  and  ambition 
of  childhood  had  taught  him  to  be  dainty  in  his 
dress  ;  and  he  was  a  leader  of  fashion  when  most  of  his 
fellows  were  content  with  the  fusty  uniform  of  school 
or  college. 

No  wonder,  then,  he  dreamed  his  career  a  march  of 
triumph  ;  no  wonder  he  believed  his  charm  invincible. 
Mine,  said  he  to  himself,  is  the  genius  of  success.  He 
would  royster  and  gamble  through  life,  winning  all 
those  hearts  which  he  chose  to  assail,  and  as  much 
money  as  should  equip  him  nobly  for  the  most  gallant 
enterprise.  His  childish  vanity  persuaded  him  to  hope 
that  he  would  bend  even  the  stubborn  King  to  his  will, 
and  the  monarch's  displeasure  at  another  lost  game 
irked  him  not  a  whit.  The  scene  of  the  tennis-court 
was   as  common   as  sunrise,  and  the  revenge  with  the 


YOUNG  WESTON  45 

dice-box  ever  doubled  the  debt.  For  all  his  extrava- 
gance, for  all  his  ambition  of  beautiful  things,  of 
jewels,  books,  and  pictures,  he  had  small  fear  of  an 
empty  pocket,  and  he  sunned  himself  in  the  favour  of 
heaven  with  the  pride  and  carelessness  of  some  bright- 
plumaged  bird.  Moreover,  he  accepted  his  happiness 
without  the  least  touch  of  vulgar  surprise  :  after  all 
he  enjoyed  no  more  splendour  than  that  for  which  his 
childhood  had  prepared  him. 

His  father,  as    became  a  travelled   gentleman  who 
had  witnessed    the   brilliancy  of  the   Cloth  of  Gold, 
was  familiar  with   the  art   and   luxury  of  France  and 
of    that    fair    country   which    lay    beyond    the    Alps. 
He    had    even    built    amid    the    hills    of    Surrey    a 
mansion    which    would   not    have  outraged    the  taste 
of   an    Italian   nobleman.     And    Francis,    for  all  his 
sixteen    years,   could    carry  back  his  memory   to   the 
growing    magnificence    of    Sutton     Place.     He    had 
seen  the  doorways  framed  with  their  dainty  pilasters  ; 
he   had   seen  the  delicate  amorini  chiselled  upon   the 
lintels ;  he  had  witnessed  the  honour  that  attends  the 
acquisition  of  a   treasure  which  is  not  only  beautiful 
but  fashionable.     To  Sutton  had  thronged   the  great 
nobles  of  England  ;  there  they  had  marvelled  at  the 
fantasy  of  Sir    Richard   Weston  ;  there  they  had  ap- 
plauded  his    cultured,    exotic  taste.     They   had  even 
condescended,   while    acclaiming    the    courage  of  the 
innovator,   to  steal   the  design  for  the  enlargement  of 
their  own  glory.      The  King  himself  had  honoured 
the  new  house  with  his  presence  and  approval  ;  there 


46  YOUNG  WESTON 

was  no  courtier  whom  Wolsey  had  destined  more 
generously  for  distinction  than  the  master  of  Sutton. 
And  young  Weston  left  his  home  to  assume  the 
duties  of  a  Royal  Page  with  no  danger  of  the  ruin 
that  follows  a  sudden  aggrandisement. 

When  the  boy  arrived  in  London — it  was  in  1526 
— Henry  was  no  longer  the  handsomest  monarch  in 
Europe.  Not  even  the  most  genial  Ambassador,  in 
that  spirit  of  content  which  is  bred  of  a  good  dinner 
and  8000  ducats  won  in  a  day,  could  assert  that  his 
play  at  tennis  was  "  the  prettiest  thing  in  the  world 
to  see."  His  encroaching  corpulency  was  fast  driving 
him  to  the  familiar  aspect  of  a  fat  man  with  a  small 
mouth.  His  plumped  cheeks  were  thrusting  his  bead- 
like eyes  still  further  into  his  head.  Though  yet  an 
ardent  sportsman,  he  sat  heavily  upon  his  horse,  and 
was  rather  a  spectator  than  a  combatant  at  joust  and 
tourney.  His  thirty-six  years  had  impaired  neither 
his  learning  nor  his  courage,  but,  in  the  words  of  the 
historian,  his  accomplishment  soon  become  cunning, 
his  bravery  fell  into  cruelty.  Though  his  wolfish 
character  had  not  yet  declared  itself,  though  he  had  not 
yet  come  forth  a  Sadie  monster  with  an  immitigable 
taste  ror  matrimony,  a  Gilles  de  Rais  with  a  quench- 
less passion  for  another  lawful  spouse,  he  was  already 
deeply  committed  to  the  cruel  intrigue  which  was  the 
tardy  undoing  of  the  blameless,  foolish  Catharine. 
The  Bishops  of  England  were  even  now  busy  with 
argument  and  excuse  ;  the  Cardinal's  devotion  was 
engaged    in    the  persuasion  of  Rome  ;    and   Henry's 


YOUNG  WESTON  47 

own  casuistical  brain  had  at  last  discovered,  by  the 
light  of  Anne  Boleyn's  eyes,  "a  certain  scrupulosity 
that  pricked  his  conscience."  He  was  Bluebeard, 
indeed,  employing  hypocrisy  for  bloodshed,  but  re- 
solved, if  the  simpler  method  failed,  not  to  shrink 
from  the  headsman's  axe. 

Such  was  the  monster  against  whose  will  and  cun- 
ning young  Weston  pitted  his  boyish  intelligence. 
And  the  boy's  charm  and  skill  gave  him  an  immediate 
advantage.  For  Henry  was  a  tireless  gambler  ;  even 
in  that  distant  time,  when  his  father  destined  him  for 
an  archbishopric,  and  it  was  his  amiable  custom  to 
say  five  masses  in  a  day,  he  could  resist  neither  the 
card-table  nor  the  dice-box,  and  in  Francis  Weston  he 
met  an  opponent  whose  skill  was  as  great  as  his  reck- 
lessness. There  was  no  game  at  which  this  cynic  of 
sixteen  would  not  encounter  his  Sovereign,  and  so 
expert  were  his  hand  and  eye  that  he  ever  came  off 
victorious.  Yesterday  it  was  tennis,  to-morrow  it 
might  be  bowls,  every  day  it  was  dice  or  imperial. 
And  extravagant  as  Weston  was  in  dress  and  finery, 
in  all  the  luxury  which  belongs  to  the  life  of  palaces, 
fot  a  while  he  had  small  difficulty  in  making  the 
King  pay  for  his  magnificence.  Henry,  moreover, 
despite  his  brutality,  loved  or  feared  a  successful 
antagonist.  Just  as  he  reverenced  Wolsey  for  the 
astuteness  and  obstinacy  which  outwitted  his  master, 
so  he  admired  the  stripling  who  defeated  him  in 
the  tennis-court,  and  won  his  money  across  the  table, 
to   the  rattle  of  the  dice.     In   truth,   the  King  was 


48  YOUNG  WESTON 

never  tired  of  rewarding  the  boy's  superiority  ;  he 
would  lend  him  money  at  the  slightest  embarrassment, 
he  would  give  him  presents  in  recompense  for  his 
sport  and  energy,  and  for  ten  years  he  was  resolute  to 
procure  him  profit  and  advancement.  Thus  Young 
Weston  passed  from  London  to  Greenwich,  from 
Greenwich  to  Hampton,  enjoying  whatever  there  was 
of  splendour  and  gaiety  in  life,  a  favoured  guest  at  the 
twin  Courts  of  Cardinal  and  King. 

His  father  had  sent  him  to  London  with  a  headful 
of  worldly  precepts,  which  Francis  was  astute  enough 
never  to  forget.  Now,  Sir  Richard  Weston,  an 
ancient  intriguer,  and  friend  of  Wolsey,  was  among 
the  first  to  foresee  the  rise  of  the  Boleyns,  and  to 
the  Boleyns,  cunning  and  ambitious,  he  commended 
his  cunning  and  ambitious  son.  Sir  Thomas  Boleyn's 
grandfather,  a  Lord  Mayor,  had  gifted  him  with  the 
comfort  of  wealth,  and  distinguished  connections  had 
insisted  that  for  him  a  brilliant  career  would  be 
crowned  with  a  peerage.  There  was  nothing  he 
would  not  sacrifice  for  the  honour  and  advancement  of 
an  upstart  house,  and  he  had  the  wit  to  perceive  the 
value  of  culture  in  the  unequal  battle.  Culture,  he 
recognised,  is  seldom  so  seductive  as  when  it  is  exalted 
by  the  patronage  of  fashion,  and  learning  had  never  been 
more  fashionable  than  under  the  Eighth  Henry.  Thus 
were  politics  and  intelligence  inextricably  mixed,  as  in 
our  own  day,  and  though  the  more  ancient  houses  still 
reserved  an  exclusive  respect  for  their  horses  and  dogs, 
those  with  a  keener  eye  upon  their  immediate  advance- 


YOUNG  WESTON  49 

ment  were  quick  to  approve  the  newly  discovered 
classics,  and  to  babble  of  ancient  Greece  with  a  kind 
familiarity. 

To  his  children  it  was  then  that  Sir  Thomas 
looked  for  his  own  advancement.  One  and  all, 
they  were  accomplished  in  the  sport  and  knowledge 
of  the  day.  If  they  were  rather  fashionable  than 
erudite,  they  were  scrupulously  and  intelligently  in  the 
movement,  and  they  possessed  the  dash  and  assurance 
which  proceed  from  a  not  too  sensitive  superiority. 
With  them  the  revival  of  learning  was  a  commonplace : 
they  had  dipped  into  Utopia ;  they  appraised  the 
achievement  of  Erasmus  and  Colet  with  a  glib  coun- 
terfeit of  scholarship.  The  vogue  of  the  minute 
compelled  a  knowledge  of  Latin  and  French,  and  at  all 
points  they  thought  themselves  the  King's  equals,  and 
the  Cardinal's  masters.  Their  wealth  and  confidence 
procured  them  an  obedient  following ;  every  licence  was 
granted  to  their  pride  and  learning  ;  and  before  long 
there  grew  up  a  tiny  Court  within  the  Court,  wherein 
Anne  Boleyn  was  a  mimic  queen,  and  all  her  friends 
and  worshippers  paid  a  willing  reverence.  Already 
the  young  Lord  Percy  had  been  disinherited  for  ven- 
turing upon  an  adoration,  which  she,  not  foreseeing 
the  King's  pleasure,  had  more  than  half  reciprocated  ; 
and  Henry,  thus  forced  into  an  admission  of  his  love, 
had  declared  his  passion,  proclaiming — after  his  wont — 
his  motive  honourable.  Nor  need  the  proudest  Sove- 
reign have  shrunk  from  paying  her  homage,  for  Anne 
Boleyn  was  the  most  accomplished  woman  of  her  age : 

n 


5o  YOUNG  WESTON 

she  had  spent  five  years  in  the  Court  of  the  Reine 
Claude  ;  she  had  learned  all  the  wit  and  sprightliness 
that  Marguerite  of  Valois  had  to  teach  ;  with  an 
intellectual  courage,  rare  even  at  this  epoch  of  revolu- 
tion, she  had  mastered  the  theological  speculation  of 
her  time,  and  she  would  confute  the  most  erudite  of 
prelates  and  cardinals  with  a  bland  smile  of  inno- 
cence. 

Henry,  then,  whose  love  of  casuistry  was  irresistible, 
found  a  perpetual  delight  in  the  society  of  this  lady, 
whose  stockings  were  at  least  stained  with  blue,  and 
who,  while  she  captivated  him  with  her  wit,  dazzled 
him  with  her  person.  For  her  beauty,  though  ;it 
might  elude  the  passer-by,  was  none  the  less  seductive. 
A  delicate  brunette,  she  charmed  rather  by  life  and 
expression  than  by  any  formal  regularity  of  feature. 
"  Briefly,"  says  Lord  Herbert  of  Cherbury,  "  it  seems 
the  most  attractive  perfections  were  eminent  in  her." 
And  if  she  sat  her  down  to  music,  there  was  none  so 
insensible,  he  would  withhold  a  willing  worship. 
"  When  she  composed  her  hands  to  play,"  again  it  is 
the  historian  who  speaks,  "  and  voice  to  sing,  it  was 
joined  with  that  sweetness  of  countenance  that  three 
harmonies  concurred."  The  King,  at  any  rate,  fell  a 
ready  victim  to  her  "  perfections";  and  when,  echoing 
Elizabeth  Woodville,  she  declared  that,  if  she  were  not 
of  birth  high  enough  to  be  his  Queen,  she  was  still 
too  well  born  to  be  his  mistress,  he  redoubled  the  ardour 
of  his  suit,  addressed  her  letters  of  passionate  regret — 
which,  forgetful  of  his  middle-class  ferocity,  he  signed 


YOUNG  WESTON  51 

with  a  heart — and  urged  his  Cardinal  to  hasten  the 
divorce. 

Thus  Anne  Boleyn  was  a  Queen  in  reverence,  if 
not  in  name,  and  it  was  to  her  fortunes  that  young 
Weston  attached  himself.  In  her  circle  he,  too, 
babbled  of  the  learning  that  was  new,  and  openly 
defied  the  tyranny  of  Popes  and  Legates.  Ever  hope- 
ful of  Catharine's  downfall,  her  friends  looked  to  the 
time  when  Anne  should  sit  upon  the  throne,  and  when 
Wolsey,  who  had  prospered  them  all,  should  be  stripped 
of  a  power  that  grew  impertinent.  Thus  they  clutched 
the  wine-cup  of  life  with  both  hands,  and  left  not  a 
few  poor  dregs  to  attest  their  draught.  They  gambled 
and  spent  the  gold  their  luck  brought  them  with 
an  extravagance  which  terrified  those  for  whom 
Henry  VII.  was  yet  a  tradition  ;  they  talked  with  a 
daring  and  a  certainty  which  appeared  infamous  to  a 
society  educated  in  the  strictest  obedience  to  authority  ; 
they  rode,  they  jousted,  they  killed  the  hart  with  a 
skill  which  lent  a  glory  to  their  courage  and  their 
pride.  Living  on  terms  of  perfect  familiarity  with 
the  tyrant  who  frowned  upon  them  all,  they  treated 
him  with  a  monstrous  levity,  and  won  his  money  or 
witnessed  his  discomfiture  in  happy  disregard  of  his 
Sadie  temper. 

Of  this  society  Francis  Weston  was  instantly  a 
leader  :  his  father's  taste  in  architecture  had  placed 
him  on  a  pinnacle  ;  the  quickness  of  his  own 
talent  had  confirmed  the  distinction.  There  was  no 
pleasure  whereto  he  was  not  impelled  by  his  joyous 


52  YOUNG  WESTON 

temperament  :  not  even  the  philosophy  of  Anne 
Boleyn's  salon  checked  his  enthusiasm  for  sport,  and 
the  King  continued  to  pay  dearly  for  his  favourite's 
skill.  But  with  the  years  his  extravagance  increased  ; 
a  scanty  patrimony  hardly  supported  the  necessities  or 
life,  and  even  his  unrivalled  luck  was  insufficient  to 
support  a  growing  weight  of  debt.  No  resource  was 
left  but  a  wealthy  marriage,  and  he  was  scarce  twenty 
when  he  entered  upon  a  tiresome  and  profitable  alliance. 
The  King  smiled  approval,  and  for  a  demure  present 
gave  the  bridegroom  ^6  13*.  /\.d.  handsomely  tied  up, 
one  supposes,  in  red  tape.  But  before  long  Weston 
found  the  heiress  a  hindrance  to  his  preferment  at 
Court,  and,  with  the  cynical  indifference  that  was  his 
characteristic,  he  banished  her  to  Sutton,  and  pursued 
afresh  his  career  in  that  brilliant  world  of  wit  and 
extravagance,  wherein  the  lightest  bond  was  unen- 
durable. 

His  moment  of  triumph  arrived  when  the  King 
proclaimed  the  marriage  with  Catharine  a  blasphemy, 
and  crowned  Anne  Boleyn  with  so  reckless  a  splendour 
as  should  atone  for  her  years  of  equivocal  sovereignty. 
On  all  sides  were  heard  the  sound  of  cannonades,  the 
fountains  ran  wine,  "white,  claret,  and  red";  wherever 
the  progress  was  stayed,  there  was  prepared  a  lordly 
pageant.  At  Gracechurch  Apollo  and  the  Muses 
Nine,  sitting  upon  Mount  Parnassus,  were  appropri- 
ately revealed  to  the  learned  Queen  ;  at  the  Conduit 
a  sumptuous  show  of  the  Three  Graces  flattered  the 
roval  beauty.     Nor  did  this  memorable  day  end  with 


YOUNG  WESTON  53 

an  empty  spectacle  :  there  was  none  of  the  circle  that 
was  not  instantly  advanced  ;  titles  were  freely  distributed 
among  the  Boleyns,  and  Young  Weston  became — at 
twenty-two — a  Knight  of  the  Bath.  Wolsey  was  dead, 
killed  by  an  implacable  intrigue,  and  Weston  and  his 
friends  believed  that,  with  Cromwell  to  aid,  the  King 
would  prove  the  willing  slave  of  their  greed  and  ambi- 
tion. The  Court,  freed  from  the  frowning  tragedy  of 
Catharine,  became  yet  gayer  and  more  refined ;  and, 
if  the  King  glutted  his  taste  for  blood,  if  the  head  ot 
Sir  Thomas  More  fell  under  the  axe,  the  favourites 
thought  their  own  necks  safe,  and  still  enjoyed  the 
fruits  of  a  fashionable  culture. 

But  Weston  and  the  Queen,  in  their  hatred  or 
Wolsey  had  removed  the  single  statesman  who  might 
have  controlled  the  savagery  of  the  King,  and  it  was 
this  treachery  that,  at  last,  ensured  their  ruin.  Mean- 
time, a  bitter  quarrel  divided  the  Queen's  own  family  : 
my  Lord  of  Norfolk  was  indignant  that  Anne's  father, 
a  new-made  Earl,  should  be  preferred  before  himself  in 
the  King's  counsels,  while  the  wife  of  George  Boleyn, 
the  most  cultured  wit  and  poet  of  them  all,  hated  her 
sister-in-law  as  fiercely  as  she  despised  her  elegant 
husband. 

So  the  dissension  became  noisier  and  more  vulgar  ; 
the  restraints  or  prudence  and  learning  were  flung 
aside,  and  the  Court  was  troubled  perpetually  by  the 
paltry  jealousies  of  angry  women.  Weston,  less  from 
loyalty,  one  is  sure,  than  from  an  imperfect  foresight, 
espoused  the  cause  cf  the  Queen,  and  thus  unwittingly 


54  YOUNG  WESTON 

prepared  his  own  death.  The  King,  tired  of  wit, 
wearied,  maybe,  with  the  unprofitable  sports  of  dice 
and  tennis,  determined  that  he  would  endure  no 
longer  the  domination  of  the  party  his  inclination 
had  created.  Anne,  thought  he,  had  proved  somewhat 
amiable  in  her  favours  ;  and,  though  no  breath  of 
scandal  touched  her  character,  she  amused  herself  too 
freely,  for  the  taste  of  the  British  Bluebeard,  with  the 
attentions  of  the  troubadours  who  thronged  the  Court. 
Moreover  the  King  had  fallen  virtuously  in  love  with 
Jane  Seymour,  and,  since  he  preferred  murder  before 
the  mere  suspicion  of  adultery,  he  had  determined,  at 
a  single  blow,  to  rid  himself  of  a  wife  who  no  longer 
pleased  him,  and  to  save  the  money  which  he  daily 
squandered  in  the  tennis-court. 

But  even  he,  though  no  restraint  fettered  his  will, 
must  find  an  occasion  for  this  fresh  brutality.  He 
could  not  in  cold  blood  kill  a  virtuous  and  accomplished 
lady,  whom  he  had  loved  through  years  of  wooing  and 
honoured  with  a  share  of  his  throne.  Yet  the  desire  of 
Jane  Seymour  was  not  to  be  denied,  and  this  prim  and 
bloodthirsty  husband  eagerly  watched  his  opportunity. 
The  opportunity  came  at  a  tourney ;  the  Queen's 
brother  and  Young  Weston  were  in  the  lists,  and  the 
Queen,  in  the  innocence  of  her  heart,  and  careless  with 
the  excitement  of  the  joust,  let  her  handkerchief  flutter 
down  between  the  combatants.  One  of  them,  said 
the  King,  picked  it  up  and  pressed  it  to  his  guilty  lips, 
and  on  the  morrow  the  Queen  and  her  friends  were 
involved  in  an  infamous  charge  of  adultery.     Murder 


YOUNG  WESTON  55 

should  have  been  enough  to  satisfy  the  dour  temper  of 
the  corpulent  monster,  but  he  preferred  to  invent,  in 
hypocritical  self-justification,  an  array  of  shameful 
accusations.  The  trial  was  proclaimed  with  an 
indecent  haste  ;  the  Queen's  own  uncle  presided  to 
ensure  his  niece's  punishment ;  and,  though  to  flatter 
the  King  even  at  the  moment  of  death  one  miscreant 
pleaded  guilty,  six  heads  fell  that  Henry  might  satisfy 
his  lust  without  infringing  the  first  law  of  domestic 
respectability. 

Francis  Weston  was  involved  in  the  common  ruin 
of  his  cultured  set,  though  the  evidence,  furnished 
forth  by  an  interested  prosecution,  was  sufficient  for 
acquittal.  The  Queen,  said  the  youth's  detractors, 
had  reproached  him  with  paying  too  instant  a  suit  to 
Margaret  Shelton,  a  Maid  of  Honour,  and  with 
neglecting  the  poor  heiress  whom  he  had  made  his 
wife.  "He  replied,"  urged  the  voice  of  malice,  "  that 
he  loved  one  in  her  house  better  than  both.  And  the 
Queen  said:  'Who  is  that?'  c  It  is  yourself.'  And 
she  defyed  him."  There  is  the  simple  statement,  and 
it  was  for  this,  guiltless  and  uncorroborated,  that  the 
most  brilliant  courtier  of  his  age  died  a  disgraceful 
death.  As  in  life  he  had  borne  himself  with  a  gay 
lightheartedness,  so  he  gave  his  head  with  complete 
dignity  and  a  noble  reserve.  He  incriminated  none; 
he  spoke  no  word  of  praise  or  blame  ;  he  asserted  his 
innocence,  and  after  condemnation  declined  to  part  his 
lips  in  protest  or  confession  ;  he  even  forbore  to  add 
one  word  in  favour  of  the  pardon  which  was  asked j 


56  YOUNG  WESTON 

and  he  died  owing  the  butcher  who  had  slain  him 
forty-six  pounds,  so  that  even  from  beyond  the  grave 
he  won  a  last  victory  over  his  Royal  master. 

His  debts  amounted  to  the  goodly  sum  of 
^925  js.  2d.  and  with  the  gambler's  thrift  he  made 
his  last  petition  for  their  discharge.  "  Father  and 
mother  and  wyfe,"  he  wrote  with  a  pathetic  dignity, 
"  I  shall  humbly  desyre  you  for  the  salvacyon  of  my 
sowle  to  dyschardge  me  of  this  bill,  and  to  forgyve 
me  of  all  the  offences  that  I  have  done  to  you.  And 
in  especyall  to  my  wyfe,  whiche  I  desyre  for  the  love 
of  God  to  forgive  me,  and  to  pray  for  me,  for  I  beleve 
prayer  wyll  do  me  good.  Goddys  blessing  have  my 
chylderne  and  meyne.  By  me  a  great  offender  to 
God."  The  schedule  which  then  follows,  the  last 
document  written  by  the  courtier's  hand,  is  a 
fitting  farewell  to  a  life  of  pleasure.  To  Browne,  the 
draper,  he  owed  fifty  pounds ;  to  "  my  lorde  of 
Wylshyre,"  the  father  of  the  murdered  Queen,  forty 
pounds  in  angels;  to  Bridges,  "mytaylor,"  twenty- 
six  pounds  ;  to  "  parson  Robynson "  (the  sporting 
parson  existed  even  in  the  sixteenth  century),  sixty-six 
pounds  ;  and  most  moving  of  all,  "to  a  pooer  woman 
at  the  Tennes  play  for  bawles  I  cannot  tell  howe 
muche." 

"To  a  pooer  woman  at  the  Tennes  play  for  bawles 
I  cannot  telle  how  muche."  Where  shall  one  find  a 
dying  speech  so  eloquent  and  appropriate?  After  this 
forethought,  you  are  not  surprised  to  know,  on  the 
faith  of  an  eye-witness,  that  "he  died  very  charitably." 


YOUNG  WESTON  57 

And  if  no  better  sportsman  ever  held  a  racket,  so  no 
more  careless  a  gentleman  was  ever  sacrificed  to  the 
lust  and  intrigue  of  a  virtuous  monarch.  Truly  his 
memory  was  writ  in  water.  No  sooner  had  his  head 
fallen  from  his  shoulders  than  he  was  forgotten  of  his 
friends.  The  King  wore  white  for  a  day,  and  on  the 
morrow  married  Jane  Seymour,  whose  beauty  had  been 
the  death-warrant  of  all.  And  Sir  Richard  Weston 
showed  so  chivalrous  a  contempt  for  his  son's 
martydom  that  he  did  not  for  a  single  hour  interrupt 
his  obsequious  friendship  for  the  King.  But  his 
century  knew  no  courtier  so  picturesque  as  Francis 
Weston,  and  you  contemplate  his  career  with  the 
satisfaction  that,  if  he  lost  his  head,  he  yet  compelled 
his  patron  and  his  murderer  to  pay  handsomely  for  a 
pitiful  lack  of  skill  at  "  tennes,  dyce,  and  imperiall." 


A    MARSHAL    OF    FRANCE 


A    MARSHAL   OF   FRANCE 

TO  be  great  and  yet  intimate  is  the  heritage  of 
few.  Kings  and  warriors  play  their  part  upon 
the  larger  stage  of  life,  and  urge  us  to  forget  that  passion, 
jealousy,  and  private  malice  were  ever  among  their 
qualities.  It  is  the  field  of  battle,  not  the  gaming 
table,  that  seems  to  befit  the  masters  of  the  world,  and 
in  the  clash  of  states  the  whisper  of  love  is  too  often 
silenced  by  the  blare  of  the  trumpet.  Wherefore, 
your  admiration  is  the  greater  when  one  of  the 
immortal  heroes  descends  to  a  confidence,  and  gossips 
(so  to  say)  at  your  fireside  of  triumph  or  defeat,  vaunt- 
ing the  smiles  of  fair  women  and  the  favour  of  kings. 
Thus  it  is  that  Francois  de  Bassompierre  lives  in  our 
memory  :  if  the  statelier  records  proclaim  his  prowess 
and  fidelity,  his  ^Memoirs  reveal  an  accomplished  and 
debonair  gentleman,  with  whom  his  own  candour 
invites  you  to  make  acquaintance  across  the  disparting 
centuries. 

His  family  was  German  and  of  immemorial  nobility. 
The  County  of  Ravelstein,  the  Barony  of  Bestein, 
were  the  heritage  of  unnumbered  ancestors,  who  since 
time   began  had  been   accustomed    to   the   service  of 


62  A  MARSHAL  OF  FRANCE 

emperors  and  of  kings.  So  that  when  he  was  born,  on 
April  12,  1579,  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  at 
the  Chateau  of  Harouel,  a  life  of  splendour  and  magni- 
ficence was  already  prepared  him.  His  childhood  was 
spent  in  the  seclusion  of  Lorraine,  and  he  set  forth 
upon  the  grand  tour  with  a  conscious  pride  in  his 
destiny  and  lineage.  Everywhere  he  was  received 
with  the  honour  which  is  paid  to  illustrious  descent, 
and  under  the  auspices  of  mighty  princes  he  became 
accomplished  in  all  the  learning  and  elegance  of  the 
age.  If  in  Germany  he  pursued  the  study  of  Aristotle 
with  a  dangerous  zeal,  Italy  provided  a  gracious  diver- 
sion, and  at  Naples  he  perfected  himself  in  those 
knightly  exercises  which  won  him  instant  glory  at  the 
Court  of  France.  The  august  Pignatelle  was  his 
riding-master,  until  old  age  set  its  seal  upon  a  distin- 
guished career ;  he  learnt  the  art  of  dancing,  wherein 
he  excelled  all  his  contemporaries,  from  Agostino 
himself,  while  Marquino  taught  him  the  use  of  lance 
and  rapier.  Thus  he  returned  to  Harouel  at  all  points 
a  proper  gentleman,  and  when  at  nineteen  he  set  out 
for  Paris,  accompanied  by  his  mother  and  sisters,  the 
equipage  was  no  more  brilliant  than  ,his  reasonable 
hopes.  The  capital,  indeed,  was  the  scene  of  his 
immediate  triumph  ;  he  began  the  career  of  courtier 
under  kingly  patronage  and  with  universal  admiration. 
Young,  handsome,  accomplished,  he  had  nothing  to 
fear,  save  the  jealousy  of  the  inexpert,  and  for  thirty 
years  his  invincible  tact  preserved  him  even  from  the 
assaults  of  malice. 


A  MARSHAL  OF  FRANCE  63 

Nor  was  the  occasion  unworthy  the  young  courtier's 
enterprise  and  audacity.  France  had  settled  into  the 
semblance  of  a  peace,  and  Henry,  her  King — that 
Polichinelle  of  genius — knew  no  other  care  than 
joyousness.  Before  the  Court  passed  a  gorgeous 
procession  of  dances  and  masquerades  ;  the  King's 
mistresses  were  the  most  beautiful  in  Europe  ;  his 
warriors  the  most  valiantly  equipped.  The  card-table 
had  brought  oblivion  of  the  religious  wars,  and  not 
even  the  sorrows  of  the  Huguenots  had  driven  the 
smile  of  merriment  from  his  face.  Moreover,  he  was 
loyal,  frank,  simple,  and  just  such  a  monarch  as  would 
entice  the  devotion  and  dazzle  the  fancy  of  a  careless 
soldier,  in  whose  eyes  pleasure  was  a  distinction  and 
warfare  an  easy  pastime.  It  was  an  age,  indeed,  of 
love  and  war,  of  strong  passion  and  hot  temper,  when 
a  man's  hand  was  ready  at  his  sword-hilt,  and  the 
tourney  was  practised  in  the  courtyard  of  the  Louvre. 

Nor  could  ingenuity  have  devised  a  more  suitable 
appearance  than  Bassompierre's :  a  dinner  at  Monsieur 
le  Grand's,  whither  the  Comte  de  Grammont  had 
conducted  him,  made  him  acquainted  with  the  gallants 
of  the  Court  who  presently  proposed  to  beguile  the 
King's  malady  with  a  ballet.  Straightway  Bassom- 
pierre  was  bidden  of  the  number,  and  when  he  pleaded 
reluctantly  that  he  had  not  yet  done  reverence  to  his 
Majesty,  the  excuse  was  brushed  aside  and  he  set  out 
with  the  rest  for  Monceaux.  No  sooner  was  the 
ballet  finished,  and  the  masks  removed,  than  the  King 
called  for  Bassompierre,  treated  him  with  a  generous 


64  A  MARSHAL  OF  FRANCE 

amiability,  presented  him  to  his  mistress,  the  Duchess 
of  Beaufort,  the  famous  Gabrielle  herself,  and  bade  him 
henceforth  be  counted  among  his  friends.  The 
young  soldier  was  eager  to  seize  the  advantage  ;  like 
many  another  gentleman  adventurer,  he  increased  his 
patron's  consideration  by  his  reckless  gambling  ;  and 
in  a  few  weeks  he  had  won  so  goodly  a  sum  of  money 
from  the  King,  that  Henry  could  no  longer  endure  to 
think  of  his  departure.  But  Bassompierre  received  the 
King's  offer  of  service  with  characteristic  independence. 
"  I  had  not  yet  intended,"  said  he,  "  to  resolve  upon 
the  future.  I  came  to  France  for  amusement's  sake, 
and  designed  to  visit  Spain  before  devoting  my  hand 
and  my  sword  to  the  welfare  of  a  king.  Yet  on  this 
short  voyage  I  have  found  a  master  whom  I  can  serve 
until  death,  and  to  you  I  dedicate  my  life  and  courage." 
Henceforth  he  esteemed  himself  a  Frenchman;  hence- 
forth he  defended  the  interests  of  his  master  with  a 
foresight  and  a  valiance  which  nothing  save  an  agree- 
able intrigue  could  interrupt.  Though  he  won 
Henry's  money,  though  once  even  he  stole  Henry's 
mistress,  he  lived  with  the  King  upon  terms  of  equal 
cordiality  until  Ravaillac's  knife  deprived  him  of  a 
gracious  friend,  and  the  hawthorn  that  grew  in  the 
Court  of  the  Louvre  fell  on  a  windless  day  j  nor  did  the 
death  of  his  patron  weaken  for  an  instant  his  honour- 
able regard  for  France. 

He  was  the  gallantest  lover  of  a  gallant  age,  and  he 
professed  unto  the  end  a  joyful  pride  in  his  conquests. 
With  a  very  gentlemanly  frankness  he  has  told   the 


A  MARSHAL  OF  FRANCE  65 

story  of  his  loves,  and  the  simplicity  wherewith  he 
records  his  triumph  is  worthy  of  our  own  Pepys.  Le 
jeudi  22,  he  writes,  feus  une  bonne  fortune.  The 
statement  can  neither  be  bettered  nor  translated,  and 
for  many  a  year  there  are  few  days  whereon  the  boast 
is  not  justified.  A  generous  admirer  of  beauty,  he 
was  always  ready  to  accept  complacency  in  return  for 
his  admiration,  and  it  was  his  unchanging  ambition  to 
break  no  heart — not  even  his  own.  Like  all  strong 
men,  he  knew  the  joy  of  life  ;  like  all  wise  ones,  he 
was  ashamed  to  discard  it.  While  his  adoration  of 
Mademoiselle  d'Entragues  is  yet  fresh,  he  interrupts 
the  recital  of  his  triumphs  at  lansquenet  and  in  the 
hunting-field  with  this  rhapsody :  "  I  was  in  love  with 
d'Entragues  and  with  another  beautiful  lady.  I  was 
also  in  the  flower  of  my  youth,  and  well-made,  and 
gay."  What  a  delightful  memory  wherewith  to  break 
the  pitiless  monotony  of  the  Bastille  ! 

And  the  beautiful  women  of  France  love  him  in 
spite  (or  on  account)  of  his  inconstancy.  When  he  is 
sent  on  a  mission  to  Lorraine,  they  pursue  him  with 
messengers,  with  letters,  with  presents  even  ;  and  when 
the  news  is  brought  of  his  return,  they  set  forth  in 
their  carriages  that  he  may  make  his  entry  with  a 
proper  guard  of  honour.  Sometimes  he  excuses  his 
popularity  with  an  unbecoming  modesty.  Thus,  he 
would  belittle  his  success  when  he  brings  back  a  treaty 
from  Spain  :  "There  were  few  gallants  in  Paris,  and  all 
the  ladies  assembled  at  the  Tuileries.  I  was  in  vast 
esteem,  and  was  in  love  with  divers  of  them.     Besides, 

E 


66  A  MARSHAL  OF  FRANCE 

I  had  spent  twenty  thousand  crowns  upon  Spanish 
curiosities,  and  these  procured  me  an  excellent  recep- 
tion." But  the  modesty  is  insincere,  and  the  real 
Bassompierre  is  rather  he  who  boasts  on  another 
occasion  :  "  I  was  well  both  with  the  Court  and  with 
the  ladies  ;  I  had  a  host  of  beautiful  mistresses."  In 
truth  they  loved  their  Bassompierre  better  than  all  the 
treasures  of  Spain,  nor  was  it  to  receive  his  gifts  that 
they  flocked  in  eager  emulation  to  the  deserted 
Tuileries. 

He  changed  his  mistresses  as  easily  as  he  put  oft  a 
worn-out   coat.     "  I   started   this   year " — such  is  the 
plain  record  of  1608 — "with  a  fair  lady."      And  the 
colour  was    fashionable,   for   on    the    next    page    you 
read  of  an   exquisite  comedy  performed  by  a   flaxen- 
haired  troop  for  the  King's  pleasure.     But  presently  it 
is   a   Greek    beauty,  who    haunts  the  theatre  for  his 
sake,  and  you  readily  believe  his  confidence  that  les 
soirs  et  les  nults  m'etaient  belles.     And   yet  for  many 
years  he   kept  one  separate  corner    in   his  heart    for 
Mademoiselle  d'Entragues.    Though  she  never  gained 
a  complete  ascendency  over  his  affection,  though  even 
at  her  zenith  she  must  share  her  lover  with  the  world, 
yet  he  adored  her  with  a  tempered  constancy,  and  his 
attention  persuaded  her    to  demand    marriage  of  the 
law.     At  the  outset  she  was  the  toast  of  the  Court — 
the  mistress  of  the  King  ;    and  doubtless  the  young 
Bassompierre  was    proud    enough   to  poach  upon  his 
master.     Besides,  the  intrigue  was  carried  on  with  all 
the    romance    of  a    guilty  love.     An  upper  chamber 


A  MARSHAL  OF  FRANCE  67 

was  discovered,  which  the  lady  might  reach  through  a 
door  concealed  in  her  wardrobe  ;  it  was  adorned  with 
silver  plaques  and  silver  torches,  and  its  furniture  was 
the  furniture  of  Zammer. 

Such  was  the  meeting-place  of  Bassompierre  and  Mile. 
d'Entragues,  and  all  might  have  been  well  had  not  the 
King  and  M.  de  Guise  been  seized  with  jealousy.  Their 
suspicion  fell  easily  enough  upon  M.  le  Grand,  whom 
they  hated  like  the  plague,  and  presently  they  warned 
the  lady's  mother  of  his  design.  Madame  d'Entragues, 
determined  upon  discovery,  rose  hastily  one  night, 
found  her  daughter's  room  empty,  and  the  door  open 
which  led  to  the  hidden  staircase.  The  poor  girl  was 
soundly  thrashed  for  her  pains  ;  her  lover  was  with 
difficulty  restored  to  favour  ;  and,  for  a  while  at  least, 
they  feared  the  King's  resentment  so  bitterly  that  they 
spoke  only  in  secret.  "  However,"  says  Bassompierre, 
"  lovers  are  always  ingenious  enough  to  find  some  rare 
means  of  intercourse;"  and  doubtless  the  intimacy 
was  more  frequent  even  after  disclosure  than  the  King 
suspected  or  than  Bassompierre  chose  to  reveal. 

But,  alas  !  the  intrigue  became  notorious.  While 
he  was  too  young  for  discretion,  she  was  resolved 
upon  marriage  and  respectability.  So  they  still 
appeared  together  at  Fontainebleau,  and  they  still  met 
in  the  secret  chamber,  which  lay  behind  the  hidden 
door,  and  was  approached  by  a  forgotten  staircase. 
And  one  night,  some  worthless  ruffian,  surprised  in  a 
house  hard  by,  was  bastinadoed  and  flung,  with  scanty 
covering,  into    the    street,   where  presently   he    died. 


68  A  MARSHAL  OF  FRANCE 

And  the  mob,  seeing  a  lifeless  body  at  the  door  of 
Madame  d'Entragues'  house,  was  not  slow  to  spread 
the  report  of  Bassompierre's  death.  Straightway  his 
friends  flocked  for  news  to  his  lodging,  and,  finding 
him  absent  on  another  quest,  gave  the  comedy  a 
tragic  complexion,  until  the  town  believed  the  courtier 
was  no  more.  The  mystery  was  easily  pierced  j  but 
the  tongues  of  the  gossips  were  already  on  the  wag,  and 
Bassompierre,  who  liked  not  a  serious  scandal,  began 
to  tire  of  d'Entragues'  advertised  affection.  The  lady, 
however,  was  resolute,  and  for  eight  years  she  threat- 
ened her  reluctant  lover  with  a  lawsuit.  The  squalid 
conclusion  to  what  should  have  been  a  very  pretty 
drama  inspires  a  regret.  For  the  lady  was  beautiful 
and  her  lover  had  once  been  ardent,  but  the  law  de- 
clined to  aid  her,  and  the  Court  knew  her  presence  no 
more.  Once,  in  her  discredited  years,  she  encountered 
her  ancient  lover.  He  was  in  the  Queen's  carriage, 
and  as  they  passed,  the  Queen  exclaimed,  with  a  laugh: 
"  There  goes  Madame  de  Bassompierre."  "  That  is 
only  her  nom  de  guerre"  said  Bassompierre.  The 
unhappy  lady  overheard  the  taunt  ;  and  denounced 
her  ancient  lover  as  le  plus  sot  des  hommes.  "  Ah, 
madam,"  he  replied,  "what  would  you  have  said  had 
you  married  me  ?  " 

His  most  romantic  adventure  had  a  still  more 
sinister  conclusion.  It  chanced — in  the  year  1606 — 
that  as  often  as  he  passed  over  the  Petit-Pont,  a 
beautiful  washer-girl,  at  the  Sign  of  the  Two  Angels, 
made  him  her  courtesy,  and  followed  him  with  her  eyes 


A  MARSHAL  OF  FRANCE  69 

until  he  was  out  of  sight.  Now,  one  day  when  he 
crossed  the  bridge  on  his  road  from  Fontainebleau,  the 
girl  stood  at  her  shop  door  and  murmured  as  he  passed : 
"  Sir,  I  am  your  servant."  He  saluted  her  with  rever- 
ence, and  turning  his  head  from  time  to  time,  he 
saw  that  she  looked  after  him  as  long  as  she  could. 
Forthwith  he  bade  his  lackey  dismount,  and  so  sent 
word  to  the  girl,  that  in  return  for  her  flattering 
curiosity  he  would  be  pleased  to  give  her  an  interview. 
She  told  the  lackey  that  he  had  brought  her  the  best 
news  he  could,  and  she  came  to  the  meeting-place  in 
all  joyousness  of  heart. 

Bassompierre,  the  liberal  lover  of  the  Court,  was  en- 
chanted with  her  amiable  simplicity,  and  implored  her 
to  see  him  once  more.  Wishing  nothing  more  ardently 
she  yet  strenuously  declined  to  re-enter  the  none  too 
honourable  place  which  the  lackey  had  prepared  for  their 
reception.  "I  know  well,"  said  she,  with  perfect  tact, 
"  the  character  of  the  house  wherein  we  are  met.  Hither 
I  have  come  for  my  love  of  you,  and  because  you  dignify 
even  this  infamous  meeting-place  ;  but  once  is  not 
custom,  and  though  I  would  do  much  for  one  I  loved, 
and  for  a  Bassompierre,  to  return  to  this  house  would 
expose  me  to  a  just  reproach.  Wherefore  you  must 
see  me  the  next  time  at  the  house  of  my  aunt,  who 
lives  in  the  Rue  Bourg  PAbbe,  not  far  from  the  market, 
and  close  to  the  Rue  aux  Ours.  Her  door  is  the  third 
on  the  side  next  the  Rue  St.  Martin  ;  and  there  I 
shall  await  you  from  ten  o'clock  to  midnight,  and 
afterwards  I  will  leave  the  door  open.    At  the  entrance 


70  A  MARSHAL  OF  FRANCE 

is  a  small  alley,  which  you  must  pass  in  haste,  for  there 
is  my  aunt's  chamber,  and  then  you  will  find  a  stair- 
case, which  will  lead  you  to  the  second  storey." 

Bassompierre  accepted  the  conditions,  and  on  Sunday 
night,  crossing  the  Petit-Pont,  he  made  his  way  along 
the  Rue  St.  Denis  and  past  the  market,  until  he  came 
to  the  Rue  aux  Ours.  The  Rue  Bourg  l'Abbe  faced 
him,  and  at  ten  o'clock  he  stood  outside  the  house 
which  the  washer-girl  had  described.  But  the  girl, 
alas  !  was  not  there  to  bid  him  welcome.  The  door 
was  closed,  and  every  floor  was  ominously  illuminated. 
He  knocked,  and  heard  no  answer  but  only  the  voice 
of  a  man,  who  brusquely  demanded  his  business. 
Thereon  he  retreated  to  the  Rue  aux  Ours,  and  coming 
again  he  found  the  door  open,  and  so  ascended  to  the 
second  storey.  Instantly  he  knew  the  cause  of  the 
light,  for  the  straw  of  the  bed  was  burning,  and  two 
naked  bodies  lay  stretched  upon  the  table. 

"I  retired,"  thus  he  continues  the  narrative,  "  much 
astonished,  and  as  I  went  out  I  met  two  plague-burvers, 
who  asked  me  what  I  sought,  and  I,  to  clear  them 
from  my  way,  took  sword  in  hand,  and  passed  into 
the  street,  and  so  returned  to  my  lodging,  not  a  little 
disturbed  at  this  unexpected  vision."  Here  he  drank 
two  or  three  glasses  of  pure  wine,  which  was  the 
German  remedy  against  the  plague,  and  after  an 
unbroken  sleep  he  set  out  next  morning  for  Lorraine. 
But  on  his  return  to  Paris  he  was  determined  to  dis- 
cover the  poor  girl,  whose  beauty  still  dazzled  his 
memory      His  search  was  vain.     She  had  vanished  as 


A  MARSHAL  OF  FRANCE  71 

suddenly  as  the  charred  straw  of  the  plague-stricken 
room  ;  she  was  forgotten  even  at  the  Sign  of  the 
Two  Angels,  where  less  romantic  hands  held  the 
wash-tub,  and  Bassompierre  could  only  regret  a  lost 
love  and  find  consolation  in  a  flippant  Court. 

Such  is  the  story  which  has  contributed  more  to 
Bassompierre's  immortality  than  his  embassy  to 
England  or  the  Siege  of  Rochelle.  Nor  has  the 
beauty  of  the  Two  Angels  lacked  lovers  since  her 
death.  So  captivated  was  Chateaubriand  with  her 
story  that  he  paid  a  pious  pilgrimage  to  the  Rue  Bourg 
l'Abbe.  But  he  found  no  washer-girl  to  do  him 
reverence  ;  no  woman,  frank  and  fair,  "  with  her  hair 
done  for  the  night,  wearing  a  very  fine  shift,  a  green 
petticoat,  and  slippers  on  her  feet."  There  was  instead 
an  old  beldame,  whose  teeth  were  soon  to  meet  in  the 
tomb,  and  who  threatened  violence  with  her  crutch. 
"  Perhaps,"  thought  he,  "  it  is  the  aunt  of  the  meeting- 
place."  The  house  itself  was  no  longer  the  shrine  of 
this  vanished  tragedy.  The  front  was  new ;  and 
neither  on  the  first,  nor  the  second,  nor  the  third 
storey  did  the  windows  glimmer  with  light.  Only 
the  attic,  under  the  roof,  was  bright  with  a  garland  of 
nasturtiums  and  sweet  peas. 

On  the  ground-floor  a  barber  plied  his  trade,  and 
Chateaubriand,  still  under  the  spell,  asked  him  with 
diffidence:  "Have  you,  perchance,  bought  the  hair  of 
a  young  washer-girl,  who  once  lived  at  the  sign  of  the 
Two  Angels,  near  the  Petit-Pont ! "  But  the  astonished 
barber  gasped  inarticulate,  and  we  shall  never  unravel  the 


72  A  MARSHAL  OF  FRANCE 

secret  already  tangled  for  Bassompierre.  Was  it  the 
girl's  body  which  lay  stark  in  the  chamber  of  death  ? 
Or  was  the  aunt  the  sudden  victim  of  the  plague  ? 
The  idle  may  fit  the  story  with  a  dozen  conclusions, 
yet  never  better  its  solemn  mystery.  And  we  of  to-day 
are  even  less  fortunate  than  was  Chateaubriand.  For 
the  Rue  aux  Ours  has  begun  to  fall  beneath  the  pitiless 
pick  of  "  improvement,"  and  the  famous  meeting-place 
of  love  and  death  is  lost  for  ever.  The  name,  "  Bourg 
l'Abbe,"  remains  to  mark  another  obscure  and  desolate 
street,  and  this  is  the  sole,  unconscious  witness  to  a 
perished  yet  imperishable  romance. 

But  his  adventures  were  not  all  so  grim,  and  there  is 
small  wonder  that  Carmail,  Termes,  and  he  were 
known  at  Court  as  les  dangereux.  Indeed,  so  general 
was  his  passion  and  so  nice  his  discretion  that  on  the 
morning  of  the  day  when  he  was  dragged  to  the 
Bastille  he  burned  more  than  six  thousand  love-letters. 
Nor  did  he  ever,  save  once,  strive  to  embark  upon  the 
sea  of  marriage,  and  this  single  enterprise  was  foiled 
by  the  intrigue  of  his  King.  Yet  it  was  commenced 
with  a  favourable  augury,  and  though  Bassompierre 
escaped  with  an  unbroken  heart,  his  vanity  received  a 
grievous  wound,  which  only  a  sense  of  humour  could 
have  cured.  The  honour  paid  him  was  conspicuous, 
for  it  was  no  less  a  personage  than  the  Constable  of 
France  who  offered  him  his  daughter's  hand,  and 
Bassompierre,  who  had  already  admired  the  beauty  of 
Mademoiselle  de  Montmorency,  was  infinitely  flattered 
by  the   proposal.     The   Constable  delivered  a  speech 


A  MARSHAL  OF  FRANCE  73 

which  brought  tears  to  the  eyes  of  his  friends,  and 
Bassompierre,  whose  eloquence  was  never  at  a  loss, 
accepted  the  father's  compliment  and  the  daughter's 
hand  with  becoming  diffidence.  On  either  side  there 
was  reason  to  rejoice,  until  the  Court  expressed  its 
disapproval,  and  rumours  were  heard  of  a  broken  con- 
tract. 

At  first  Bassompierre  refused  to  surrender  his 
promised  bride,  and  the  Constable  set  his  face  sternly 
against  the  Prince  de  Conde,  who  was  now  forced 
upon  his  daughter's  acceptance.  But  the  King's  will 
was  unconquerable,  and  the  sequel  was  so  delightful  a 
comedy  of  manners,  that  the  victim  himself  could  not 
have  forborne  to  smile.  When  the  intrigue  was  at  its 
keenest,  and  the  Prince's  insolence  intolerable,  the 
King  sent  for  Bassompierre,  and  assured  him  that  he 
thought  continually  of  his  marriage.  The  Knight 
answered  that  had  it  not  been  for  the  Constable's 
gout,  the  ceremony  would  have  already  been  per- 
formed. "  No,"  interposed  the  King,  "  I  was 
thinking  of  your  marriage  with  Mademoiselle 
d'Aumale."  And  when  Bassompierre  would  have 
expostulated,  the  King  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  thus 
continued  :  "  Bassompierre,"  he  murmured,  "  I 
would  speak  to  you  as  a  friend.  I  love  Mademoiselle 
de  Montmorency  madly  and  desperately.  If  you 
marry  her,  and  she  loves  you,  I  shall  hate  you  ;  if  she 
loves  me,  you  will  hate  me.  And  I  would  have 
nothing  break  our  ancient  friendship  and  good  under- 
standing.    Therefore,  I    intend   to  marry  her  to  my 


74  A  MARSHAL  OF  FRANCE 

nephew,  who  likes  the  chase  a  thousand  times  better 
than  woman,  and  thus  to  keep  her  near  my  house. 
So  I  shall  find  consolation  and  entertainment  for  the 
old  age  which  is  creeping  upon  me." 

To  this  appeal  no  reply  was  possible  ;  the  King  and 
his  servant  mingled  their  tears  and  congratulations ;  to 
Bassompierre  there  remained  the  gaming-table  and  un- 
numbered intrigues,   so   that  he    could    but  wish  his 
monarch  happiness  and  desist  from  his  suit.     The  last 
act  of  comedy  turned  to  farce,  for  the  nephew,  basely 
ungrateful   for   the   King's  thoughtfulness  and  gene- 
rosity, took  the  money,  and  fled  from  France  with  his 
bride.     Henry  was  transported  to  the  very  madness  of 
rage.      He  stormed,  he  raved,  he  asked  advice  of  all  his 
councillors,  and   as  instantly  rejected   it.     At  la^t  he 
sent    for    Sully.     "  What    can    I    do    to    recover    the 
fugitives  ?  "  he    asked.      "  Let    me    sup,"  said    Sully, 
"  and  sleep  upon  the  matter,  and  I  will  give  you  my 
counsel    to-morrow."     "  No,"    clamoured    the    King, 
"  you  must  tell  me  on  the  spot."     "  Then,"  demurred 
Sully,  "  I  must  think."     So  he  walked  to  the  window, 
and  there  beat  a  tattoo  upon  the  glass  with  his  fingers. 
And   when   he   turned    to    the  King,   and    the  King 
demanded    eagerly  —  "  What    can     be    done  ?  "  — 
"  Nothing,"  he  replied,  and   so  ended  the  whimsical 
farce,  which   was    Bassompierre's  solitary   attempt  at 
matrimony. 

No  sport  at  the  time  came  anywise  amiss  to  him, 
and  as  he  won  his  place  by  his  love  of  gambling,  so  it 
was  with  the  cards  that  he  retained  the  affection  of  the 


A  MARSHAL  OF  FRANCE  75 

King  and  maintained  his  own  extravagance.  Trictrac, 
lansquenet,  and  la  prime  were  his  favourite  games,  and 
good  luck  rarely  deserted  him.  "  I  won  this  year," 
says  he,  on  the  very  top  of  the  wave,  "  more  than  five 
hundred  thousand  francs  at  play,  though  I  was  dis- 
tracted by  a  thousand  follies  of  youth  and  love." 
Another  time  he  records  that  the  stakes  at  Fontaine- 
bleau  were  the  highest  he  had  ever  known.  "No 
day  passed,"  he  writes,  "  without  the  loss  or  gain  of 
twenty  thousand  pistoles.  The  smallest  stake  was 
fifty  pistoles,  and  they  ran  so  fast  that  they  were  called 
quinterottes^  after  the  incomparable  speed  of  the  English 
horses  lately  introduced  into  France  by  Quinterot." 
The  delay  of  two  days  on  a  journey  once  cost  him 
twenty-five  thousand  crowns,  but,  in  revenge,  there 
were  few  years  wherein  he  did  not  come  off  with  a 
handsome  balance.  So,  also,  he  was  an  accomplished 
dancer,  and  in  taste  and  fancy  his  ballets  were  unsur- 
passed. Their  motives  were  varied  and  ingenious : 
now  it  was  Turks,  now  Sea-gods,  now  even  Washer- 
women, that  Bassompierre  and  his  fellow  courtiers 
represented  before  the  King. 

With  M.  de  Guise,  too,  he  revived,  for  the 
moment,  the  fashion  of  the  tourney,  and  broke  a 
lance  in  the  courtyard  of  the  Louvre,  half  in  jest, 
half  for  the  favour  of  Mademoiselle  d'Entragues. 
The  combat  was  conducted  with  order  and  magnifi- 
cence. Bassompierre  and  his  friends  carried  arms 
plated  with  silver  ;  and  their  plumes  were  flesh-colour 
and  white,  which  colours  were  echoed  in  their  silken 


76  A  MARSHAL  OF  FRANCE 

hose.  M.  de  Guise,  on  the  other  side,  was  in 
mourning  for  Madame  de  Verneuil,  at  that  moment 
a  prisoner  in  the  Bastille,  and  he  wore  neither  arms 
nor  habiliments  which  were  not  black  and  gold.  The 
battle  took  place  before  a  splendid  assembly,  and  the 
result  was  not  long  in  doubt.  For  M.  de  Guise  rode 
a  small  horse,  and  charged  from  the  lower  end,  while 
Bassompierre  descended  upon  his  opponent  with  the 
speed  of  a  gallant  courser  of  Spain.  So  that  M.  de 
Guise  broke  his  lance  not  upon  his  adversary's  helmet, 
but  upon  his  tasses,  and  inflicted  such  a  wound  as  only 
a  hero  could  endure.  The  Court  was  in  despair  at  its 
favourite's  mischance,  but  Bassompierre  was  ever  con- 
fident of  recovery,  and  no  sooner  was  the  wound  healed 
than  he  set  out  for  Plombieres  to  take  the  waters. 
Even  his  sickness  turned  to  gaiety  ;  a  crowd  of  nobles 
followed  him  to  the  baths  ;  he  took  a  band  of  fiddlers 
in  his  retinue ;  and  despite  his  wound  he  enjoyed  all 
"  the  diversion  which  a  young  man,  rich,  debauched, 
and  thriftless,  could  desire." 

He  spent  his  money  with  a  regal  magnificence, 
which  no  wealth  could  withstand,  and,  despite  his 
appointments  and  the  King's  generosity,  he  was  always 
embarrassed.  Yet  his  good  humour  made  light  of  all 
difficulties,  and  there  was  no  pass  from  which  he  did 
not  emerge  with  credit.  Once  upon  a  time,  returning 
from  Lorraine,  he  was  bidden  to  a  Royal  christening, 
and  found  in  his  wardrobe  nothing  worthy  so  great 
an  occasion.  The  tailors  of  Paris,  however,  were 
reluctant   to   increase  their  promises  of  apparel,   and 


A  MARSHAL  OF  FRANCE  77 

Bassompierre,  with  a  slender  pocket,  feared  that  he 
could  not  make  a  fitting  appearance.  But  he 
ordered  his  tailor  and  embroiderer  to  attend  his  pleasure, 
and  was  told  that  a  merchant  had  just  arrived  from 
Antwerp  with  a  load  of  pearls,  wherewith,  said  the 
embroiderer,  you  could  make  such  a  coat  as  should 
surpass  all  others  at  the  ceremony.  And  for  the 
making  he  asked  a  poor  six  hundred  crowns.  It  was 
cloth  of  gold  and  purple,  with  interlacing  palm-leaves; 
and  when  this  was  chosen  there  remained  only  to  pur- 
chase the  pearls,  and  pay  the  bill  of  fourteen  thousand 
crowns. 

Now,  Bassompierre  had  but  seven  hundred  crowns 
in  the  world,  and  the  jeweller  demanded  four  thousand 
as  earnest.  The  Knight  could  but  put  him  off  to  the 
morrow,  and  rely  upon  Providence.  That  evening 
M.  d'Espernon  bade  him  to  supper,  and  with  his  seven 
hundred  crowns  he  won  five  thousand.  Thus  he 
satisfied  the  jeweller,  and  after  another  night's  play 
he  not  only  paid  for  his  miraculous  coat,  but  purchased 
a  diamond-hiked  sword,  and  still  had  five  thousand 
crowns  in  his  pocket.  But  he  always  came  off  trium- 
phant from  an  embarrassment,  and  both  the  Kings 
whom  he  served  were  inclined  to  humour  his  extra- 
vagance. On  one  occasion,  Louis  XIIL,  knowing 
him  to  be  hard  pressed  for  money,  begged  a  gift  of  the 
cider  which  he  received  every  year  from  Normandy. 
Bassompierre  sent  the  King  a  dozen  bottles,  and 
received  in  exchange  twelve  thousand  crowns.  "Sire," 
said  the  Marshal,  with  a  twinkle,  "  I  have  a  hogshead 


78  A  MARSHAL  OF  FRANCE 

at  my  lodging,  which  I  am  willing  to  sell  on  the  same 
terms."  But  the  King  was  satisfied  with  his  dozen 
bottles,  and  Bassompierre  with  the  King's  liberality. 
Nor  did  his  thrift  increase  with  years,  and  perhaps  he 
reflected  with  a  glimmer  of  satisfaction  that  when  he 
entered  the  Bastille  he  owed  without  its  inhospitable 
walls  no  less  than  one  million  six  hundred  thousand 
francs. 

But  much  as  he  loved  gaiety  and  beautiful  women 
and  splendid  clothes,  much  as  he  esteemed  wit  and 
devilry,  he  was  no  mere  gallant.  He  played  an  active 
part  in  the  war  and  diplomacy  of  his  time,  nor  did 
he  yield  to  one  of  his  contemporaries  in  courage  or 
address.  He  was,  moreover,  a  single-minded  gentleman 
living  among  the  astute  professors  of  intrigue,  and  he 
looked  no  further  beyond  his  duty  than  the  service 
of  his  King.  But  he  treated  nobody,  not  even  the 
King  his  master,  with  more  submission  than  became 
a  man  of  honour,  nor  did  he  ever  scruple  to  condemn 
a  policy  which  he  deemed  unprofitable  to  France.  In 
truth,  so  long  as  Henry  IV.  was  alive,  Bassompierre 
was  safe  to  enjoy  the  best  things  of  an  amiable  life, 
since  even  the  King's  foibles  won  the  sympathy  of  his 
friend,  and  "intrigue'*  had  not  yet  acquired  a  sinister 
meaning.  But  the  Regency  of  Marie  de  Medicis,  and 
the  supremacy  of  the  King's  favourites,  crushed  the 
gaiety  from  Bassompierre's  heart.  Too  honest,  too 
independent  to  fight  the  Due  de  Luynes  (for  instance) 
with  his  own  weapons,  he  was  very  often  in  disgrace, 
and  even  in  danger. 


A  MARSHAL  OF  FRANCE  79 

Thus  it  was  that  he  turned  Ambassador,  and  travelled 
to  Spain  or  to  England,  that  he  might  gain  a  respite 
from  the  suspicions  of  the  King's  advisers.     But  once 
abroad,  he  made  the  very  best  of  his  voyage,  and  proved 
a  model  diplomatist.     In  tact  and  firmness  he  was  a 
match  for  the  cleverest,  and  while  Charles  I.  shuddered 
at  his  persistence,  Buckingham  recognised  his  worth,  and 
helped  him  to  a  solution.     And  if  his  despatches  from 
the  Courts  of  London  and  Madrid  are  admirable  State 
papers,  his  Memoirs  prove  that  his  curiosity  was  still 
insatiable,  that  his  zest  for  life  was  as  keen  as  when  he 
first  travelled  to  Paris  from  his  distant  Lorraine.      He 
reached  Madrid  in  time  to  see  the  King  die  of  eti- 
quette, but  already  he  had  rejoiced   in  the  dances  of 
the  Basques  and  in  many  a  pleasant  comedy.     With 
the  adaptability  which  was  always  his,  he  wore  Spanish 
mourning,  and  won  more  honour  and  glory  among  the 
Spaniards  than  he  could  claim   in  the  country  of  his 
adoption.     For  with   all    his   clevernsss    and    tact    he 
was  unable  to  overcome  the  wiles  of  his  adversaries. 
Louis  XIII.,  accustomed  to  flattery,  tired  of  the  plain 
speaking  of  this  valiant  soldier.     He  liked  not  that  this 
soldier  should  decline  to  take  further  part  in  the  siege 
of  Rochelle,   unless  he  had  a  separate  army,  separate 
stores,  and  a  separate  exchequer  ;  and  he  resented  the 
straightforward  eloquence  which  hindered  him — before 
Chastillon — from  an  act  of  bad  faith.    Nor  had  Schom- 
berg  and   Richelieu  cause  to  love  the  resolute  Marshal 
of  France.     More  than  once  he  had  spurred  Louis  on 
to  acts  of  insubordination,  and  on  one  occasion  he  had 


80  A  MARSHAL  OF  FRANCE 

heartened  the  King  to  decline  their  informal  visit. 
Moreover,  he  was  a  noble  who  favoured  his  own 
order,  and  the  Bastille  was  his  sad,  inevitable  goal. 

For  once  his  "  good  fortune  "  failed  him — that  good 
fortune,  in  which  Schomberg  believed  so  loyally  that 
he  sent  him  upon  many  a  forlorn  hope — and  he  was 
Richelieu's  prisoner.     But  he  entered  his  dungeon  with 
a  light  heart  and  a  good  courage.     Not  only  did  he 
decline    flight  ;    he    accepted    his    fate    with    a    brave 
resignation,  which   turned    to  sadness   rather  than  to 
complaint  when  grief  lay  too  heavy  a  hand  upon  him. 
At  last  he  had  hung  his  harp  upon  the  wall  ;  no  more 
might  he  know  the  pleasures  of  which  not  even  years 
had  robbed  him.     Perhaps  the  treachery  of  the  King 
irked  him — of  the  King  whom  he  had  loyally  served 
and  who  two  days  since  had  promised    that  nothing 
should  be  done  against  his  liberty.    But  he  accepted  his 
fate  with  courage,  and  believed  devoutly  that  freedom 
was  at  hand.     Moreover  the  Cardinal's  assurance  was 
never  lacking.   Day  after  day,  year  after  year,  he  received 
promises  of  liberty,  until  at  last  he  resolved  to  listen 
no  more  to  the  voice  of  falsehood.     And  no  sooner 
was  he  behind  the  walls  of  the  Bastille  than  disaster 
added  to  disaster  shook  his  fortitude.     Not  only  were 
his  appointments   taken   from  him,  but  presently  his 
estates  were    stolen    through  the  faithlessness   of  his 
enemies.     The  Chateau  of  Bassompierre  was  destroyed, 
the  profit  of  his  crops  was  turned  to  an  alien  channel, 
while  his  nephew  lost  his  honourable  position  in  the 
army  and  saw  his  own  Chateau  de  Dammartin  burned 


A  MARSHAL  OF  FRANCE  81 

by  order  of  the  King.  Nor  did  he  escape  the  lesser 
miseries  of  life:  the  coach  which  was  bringing  him 
money  and  clothes  from  Nancy  was  held  up  by  high- 
waymen, and  plundered.  In  brief  he  saw  himself 
slipping  into  poverty,  and  thus,  said  he,  with  a  grim 
humour,  "  thus  I  kept  my  jubilee." 

But  the  gloom  grew  only  deeper  as  the  chance  of 
freedom  lessened.  "  I  passed  the  whole  month  of 
January,"  he  wrote  after  some  years  of  captivity, 
"without  hope  of  liberty,  and  with  infinite  sadness." 
And  while  he  lost  hope,  and  money,  and  houses,  and 
crops,  he  was  soon  to  mourn  the  greater  sadness  of 
death.  First,  the  Princess  de  Conti  died,  killed  it 
is  said  by  the  disgrace  of  his  imprisonment,  and  in 
her  he  lost  the  closest  friend  that  remained  in  the 
world.  Then,  one  after  another  his  relatives  died,  and 
left  him,  forsaken  and  miserable,  in  the  Bastille.  So 
he  sat  in  a  solitude  as  bitter  as  Job's,  until  the  last 
affront  was  put  upon  his  pride  by  an  insolent  gaoler. 
So  for  ten  years  he  suffered  from  the  resentment  or 
the  caution  of  Richelieu,  nor  was  it  until  the  death 
of  the  Cardinal  that  he  breathed  the  larger  air  of 
liberty. 

And  then  too  late  was  he  restored  to  his  places 
of  honour  and  profit  ;  too  late  did  the  King  smile 
again  upon  his  ancient  favourite.  He  was  out  of 
fashion ;  his  wit  appeared  slow-footed  to  the  waterflies 
of  the  Court;  he  brought  from  the  Bastille  a  leisurely 
arrogance  which  was  ill  understood  in  a  busy,  pro- 
gressive age.     But,  in  revenge,  he  might  plume  himself 

F 


82  A  MARSHAL  OF  FRANCE 

upon  a  strangely  rotund  and  finished  career — a  career 
which  was  not  only  brilliant,  but  also  was  brilliantly 
modulated.  No  experience  had  escaped  him:  a  youth 
of  pleasure,  a  middle-life  of  war  and  diplomacy,  an  age 
of  bitter  imprisonment  and  ultimate  respect — he  had 
known  them  all,  and  had  accepted  each  in  a  spirit  of 
valiance.  Moreover,  the  ten  years'  captivity  had  not 
dulled  his  wit,  and  he  was  ready  on  the  instant  with  a 
dignified  reproof.  "How  old  are  you?"  asked  the 
King  on  the  Marshal's  enlargement.  "Fifty  years, 
sire,"  was  the  reply.  And  when  the  King  seemed 
incredulous,  he  added:  "I  discard  the  years  which 
were  not  spent  in  your  service." 

His  book  approaches  most  nearly  to  the  Diary  of 
our  own  Pepys,  but  it  seldom  attains   the   engaging 
candour  of  that  masterpiece.    Compiled  when  imprison- 
ment had  forced  him  to  an  unwelcome  leisure,  it  is  an 
effort  rather  of  memory  than  of  observation.     It  was 
not  his  happiness  to  fix  the  fleeting  indiscretion  by  a 
timely    phrase;    rather,   he    is    driven    to    the    fading 
tablets  of  his  mind  even  for  the  record  of  his  bonnes 
fortunes.     Again,  while  the  Englishman  only  remem- 
bers that  he    is  a    man,  Bassompierre    never    forgets 
that  he  is  a  Marshal  of  France.     He  approaches  him- 
self in  full  uniform,  and  he  dares  not  be  as  intimate 
with  his  own  actions  as  the  merest  stranger  may  be 
with  the  peccadilloes  of  Pepys.     He  does  not  let  you 
glance  over  his  shoulder  as  he  writes;  his  very  dignity 
keeps  you  at  a  distance,  and  reminds  you  (what  Pepys 
bids  you   forget)  that  there  are  privacies  into  which 


A  MARSHAL  OF  FRANCE  83 

curiosity  should  not  intrude.  From  the  point  of  view 
of  style,  his  was  incomparably  the  higher  ambition. 
He  was  anxious  to  embellish  his  narrative  with  set 
speeches,  in  accordance  with  the  artifice  of  Thucydides 
and  Livy;  and,  while  Pepys  is  content  to  be  witty  or 
scandalous  in  a  line,  he  would  at  times  sustain  the 
dignity  of  his  prose  for  a  dozen  pages. 

But  he  displayed  as  much  truth  and  sincerity  as  may 
be  expected  from  a  warrior  and  statesman;  and  it  is  not 
strange  if,  greater  in  all  else,  he  fell,  in  candour,  below 
the  splendid  genius  of  Samuel  Pepys.  "I  shall  make  an 
ample  discourse  of  my  life,"he  declares,"withoutafFecta- 
tion  or  vanity  ....  and  you  will  not  find  it  strange  it 
I  tell  all  things  in  detail."  The  detail  it  is  that  makes 
the  book  a  masterpiece:  that  he  saw  a  comet  in  1608, 
that  the  floor  of  the  Oueen's  salon  collapsed,  save  the 
plank  whereon  her  Majesty  was  standing,  that  outside 
Agen  a  cannon  carried  off"  the  four  arms  of  the  four 
soldiers  who  carried  the  flags  of  Navarre,  that  the  Lord 
Mayor's  Show  of  1626  was  the  finest  spectacle  that 
ever  he  saw — these  are  the  details  which  give  life  and 
vividness  to  the  book.  And  you  lay  it  down  with  the 
pleasant  assurance  that,  if  you  may  not  claim  Bassom- 
pierre  for  a  friend,  you  have  lived  for  a  week  upon 
amiable  terms  with  a  great  man. 


THEAGENES 


THEAGENES 

WHEN  Sir  Kenelm  Digby  confronted  his  audience 
at  Montpellier,  there  shone  upon  his  face  the 
pleasant  assurance  and  self-content  which  had  carried 
him  triumphantly  through  half  a  century  of  adventure. 
It  irked  him  little  that  he  mounted  his  hobbyhorse  at 
so  great  a  distance  from  his  native  London,  for  here 
the  course  was  open,  and  a  fervid  applause  encouraged 
his  management  of  the  ancient  steed.  None  enjoyed 
more  keenly  than  he  the  appreciation  bestowed  upon  a 
prophet  in  a  strange  land,  and  for  a  while  at  least  he 
was  secure  from  the  glacial  incredulity  of  John  Evelyn 
and  the  sceptics.  Besides,  the  soft  air  of  the  South 
had  tempered  the  winter  unto  gentleness,  and  Sir 
Kenelm  knew  that  supreme  satisfaction  which  comes 
of  an  abated  malady. 

His  subject  was  old  and  familiar — the  Powder  of 
Sympathy,  and  he  handled  it  in  the  old  and  familiar 
style.  With  a  flourish  of  pride  he  vaunted  his  prowess, 
and  explained  for  the  hundredth  time  the  approval  of 
King  James.  Well  might  Montpellier  express  her 
astonishment  !  Well  might  her  men  of  science 
marvel  at  the  miracle  !     But  Sir  Kenelm  was  stern  in 


88  THEAGENES 

his  conviction,  and  he  permitted  not  the  shadow  of  a 
doubt  to  be  cast  upon  the  clear  page  of  his  achieve- 
ment. There  was  no  wound,  he  declared  in  the  voice 
of  certainty,  that  he  could  not  cure,  and  he  was  ready 
on  the  instant  with  his  renowned  example.  It  was  no 
less  a  personage,  said  he,  than  James  Howell,  the 
famous  author  of  Dendrologla^  whose  injury  had  yielded 
to  his  discreet  and  superstitious  remedy.  Upon  a 
generous  impulse,  he  who  afterwards  became  King 
Charles's  Historiographer  had  attempted  to  part  the 
swords  and  check  the  embroilment  of  two  friends,  and 
the  officious  hand  had  naturally  been  cut  to  the  bone. 

The  doctors  feared  gangrene,  and  Howard  appealed 
for  aid  to  Sir  Kenelm,  with  the  proverb  of  doubtful 
compliment  upon  his  lips  :  "  Let  the  miracle  be  done, 
though  Mahomet  do  it."  Nor  was  Mahomet  slothful 
to  perform  the  wonder.  He  did  but  call  for  a  basin  of 
water,  sprinkle  therein  a  handful  of  powder  of  vitriol, 
and  immerse  a  garter  stained  with  the  blood  of  the 
victim.  Instantly  Howell  was  free  from  the  pain  ;  a 
feeling  of  composure  crept  over  the  wounded  hand, 
and  though  Sir  Kenelm,  for  experiment's  sake,  might 
now  and  again  remove  the  garter  from  the  sovereign 
cure,  and  so  rack  his  friend  with  torture,  five  days' 
immersion  of  the  blood-stained  silk  was  sufficient  to 
heal  the  hand,  and  to  bruit  Sir  Kenelm's  miracle  about 
the  Court.  Buckingham  first  was  devoured  by 
curiosity,  and  then  the  King,  always  avid  of  novelty, 
must  be  informed  of  the  circumstance.  So  that 
Howell  and   Sir   Kenelm  were   united   in  a   common 


THEAGENES  89 

fame,  and  the  Powder  of  Sympathy  was  the  wide- 
mouthed  wonder  of  a  day.  Thus,  to  his  own  glory 
and  to  the  bedevilment  of  Montpellier,  did  Sir  Kenelm 
Digby  extol  his  skill,  thus  did  he  infect  the  learned 
South  with  the  fever  of  his  own  credulity. 

Nor  did  he  abate  one  jot  of  his  vanity,  though  he 
carried  a  solid  weight  of  years  upon  his  back.  In  his 
own  eyes  he  was  still  the  noble,  brave,  persuasive 
Theagenes,  who  with  peerless  eloquence  had  wooed 
Stelliana,  the  hapless  and  irresistible.  The  admiration 
of  his  own  beauty,  which  was  the  reasonable  comfort 
of  his  youth,  remained  the  solace  of  his  riper  age. 
Even  yet  he  recalled  with  satisfaction  the  panegyric 
his  own  modesty  had  composed,  even  yet  he  wondered 
which  were  the  more  remarkable  :  "the  great  strength 
and  framing  of  his  body,"  or  "  the  noble  temper  of 
his  mind."  Despite  the  growing  bulk,  which 
turned  his  giant  stature  to  unwieldiness,  he  was  still 
assured  that  in  his  single  person  were  united  the 
attributes  of  Apollo  and  of  Hercules.  And  he  smiled 
the  sunny  smile  of  boastfulness  upon  the  scholars  of 
Montpellier,  who  rivalled  the  more  deeply  instructed 
in  their  obedience  to  Sir  Kenelm's  will.  For,  pedant 
as  he  was,  he  was  quick  to  catch  the  breath  of 
sympathy,  and  in  defiance  of  his  pragmatical  habit,  he 
had  determined  at  the  first  to  take  the  froth  off*  the 
bowl  of  life.  The  rest  might  drink  the  lees,  if  they 
would  ;  he  only  knew  the  sparkle  of  the  wine  as  it 
leapt  against  his  palate,  for  in  the  glass  of  his  career 
every   draught,  of  love   and   war,   of  scholarship  and 


90  THEAGENES 

intrigue,  had  been  turned  to  the  lively  champagne  of 
adventure. 

Fate  favoured  him  in  the  cradle,  and  though  he  was 
unconscious  of  his  first  tragedy,  it  was  already  far 
removed  from  the  commonplace.  His  father,  Sir 
Everard,  as  brave  a  gentleman  as  ever  died  a  rebel's 
death,  suffered  on  Tower  Hill  when  Kenelm  was  no 
more  than  two  years  old.  And  the  manner  of  his 
capture  was  as  splendid  as  the  legend  of  his  death. 
Had  he  sacrificed  his  servants  after  the  Gunpowder 
Plot,  he  might  have  escaped  pursuit,  but  preferring  to 
face  his  assailants,  he  surrendered  with  a  noble  serenity. 
And  when,  saith  rumour,  he  climbed  Tower  Hill, 
there  happened  to  the  father  just  such  a  miracle  as  the 
fancy  of  the  son  would  have  delighted  to  invent.  The 
executioner,  dragging  out  Sir  Everard's  heart,  lifted  it 
to  the  people's  gaze  and  declared  that  it  was  the  heart 
of  a  traitor  ;  whereupon  the  victim  protested,  as  life 
flickered  at  his  ashen  lips,  that  he  was  no  traitor,  and 
thus  died. 

With  so  marvellous  a  legend  the  young  Kenelm 
might  have  pampered  his  early  pride,  and  in  order 
not  to  break  with  tradition  he  was  but  a  boy  when 
he  encountered  the  serious  drama  of  his  life.  To 
the  dispassionate  mind  there  seems  no  obstacle  which 
should  have  divided  the  valiant  Digby  from  Venetia 
Stanley.  Equal  in  birth  and  affluence,  they  passed 
their  childhood  in  a  paradise  of  love.  His  boyish 
constancy  was  more  than  rewarded  by  her  magnani- 
mous fidelity  ;  and  if  in  a  handsome  body  he  carried  a 


THEAGENES  91 

marvellously  instructed  mind,  she  was  already  a  beauty 
of  the  Court  before  she  had  turned  her  fifteenth  year. 
How  then  devise  a  properer  match  ?  Naught  seemed 
necessary  to  happiness,  save  a  brief  span  of  patience, 
but  it  was  Kenelm's  fate  to  enjoy  romance,  and  fate 
would  have  been  outraged  had  he  ridden,  at  twenty, 
upon  the  level  tide  of  marriage.  Wherefore  every 
hindrance,  which  a  malevolent  ingenuity  could  invent, 
was  put  in  the  way  of  his  happiness.  Poor  Venetia 
must  endure  all  the  pains  and  more  than  the  dishonour 
which  are  wont  to  perplex  the  Princesses  of  Fairyland. 
Truly,  for  many  a  year  "  the  sun  of  her  beauty  "  was 
doomed  to  shine  "  through  the  clouds  of  sadness,"  and 
for  no  cause,  save  that  her  Kenelm  should  know  the 
cruel  joy  of  uncertainty,  and  should  cultivate  the 
stilted  eloquence  of  a  foiled,  yet  ever  devoted,  lover. 

His  own  mother  was  the  bitterest  enemy  of  this 
celestial  alliance,  and,  like  many  another,  she  believed 
the  grand  tour  the  easiest  cure  for  a  wayward  fancy. 
And  so,  while  Venetia  pined  at  home,  Kenelm  set 
forth  to  see  the  world,  and  to  correct  by  dissipation 
the  passion  of  a  virtuous  heart.  He  knew  strange 
Courts  and  distant  cities  ;  wherever  he  travelled  he 
was  received  with  the  courtesy  which  follows  distin- 
guished birth  and  noble  connections  ;  if  we  may 
believe  him,  the  ladies  of  Europe  were  at  his  feet,  and 
even  the  Queen  of  France  disdained  not  to  confuse 
his  virgin  heart  by  the  reckless  ardour  of  her  suit. 
But  never  for  an  instant  did  he  forget  his  Venetia: 
neither  the  beauty  of  his  suitors  nor  the  taunts  of  his 


92  THEAGENES 

companions  availed  to  shake  his  superhuman  constancy; 
and  though  his  poor  frame  might  wander  in  the  centre 
of  France,  or  in  remoter  Spain,  his  soul  was  still  in 
the  English  countryside  where  dwelt  Venetia,  faithful 
and  unconsoled. 

Meanwhile  treachery  had  laid  its  plots  of  ruin 
and  of  spite.  In  her  lover's  absence,  the  stainless 
heroine  was  assailed  with  all  the  weapons  of  devilish 
intrigue.  Not  only  were  Kenelm's  letters  sup- 
pressed, but  a  villainous  report  of  his  death  was  most 
sedulously  spread  abroad  ;  and,  as  though  this  mystifi- 
cation were  not  enough,  Venetia  was  offended  by  the 
gross  addresses  of  unscrupulous  lovers.  Her  ancient 
nurse  was  as  eager  for  betrayal  as  the  nurse  of 
immemorial  comedy,  and  no  incident  was  lacking 
to  this  pre-ordained  embroilment.  The  assailant's 
name  is  happily  forgotten,  but  Sir  Kenelm  dubbed  him 
Ursatius,  not  without  an  etymological  propriety,  and 
so  eagerly  did  he  play  the  part  of  Lovelace,  that  he 
might  have  sat  for  that  gentleman's  portrait.  Believing 
that  his  honourable  suit  was  hopeless,  and  spurred  to 
villainy  by  the  avaricious  nurse,  Ursatius  resolved  to 
kidnap  the  virtuous  Venetia,  who  was  easily  beguiled 
by  a  false  report  of  Theagenes's  return.  Thus  she  was 
decoyed  to  a  coach  and  four  ;  she  was  carried  off  by 
hirelings  to  the  mansion  of  Ursatius  ;  and  thus  she 
would  have  suffered  the  unkind  fate  of  Clarissa,  had 
not  her  own  courage  and  the  burnt  ashes  of  Ursatius's 
honour  prevented  her  undoing. 

He,  at  any  rate,  played  his  part  with  a  broken  spirit. 


THEAGENES  93 

His  resolution,  inspired  by  the  falsehood  of  the  nurse, 
wavered  at  the  first  sight  of  the  adored  Venetia,  and 
he  accepted  his  dismissal  with  the  obedience  of  a 
crushed  and  lawful  suitor.  But  the  lady  was  none  the 
less  compromised,  and  at  midnight  she  crept  from  the 
alien  house,  and  letting  herself  down  into  the  garden 
upon  an  improvised  rope,  she  fled  to  the  woods,  where 
she  lay  hid  until  morning,  and  where,  as  romance 
would  suggest,  she  was  attacked  by  a  wolf.  Nor 
would  she  ever  have  looked  again  into  the  eyes  of  her 
Kenelm,  had  not  a  young  nobleman,  who  lived  hard 
by,  come  sudden  to  her  rescue.  The  rest  is  a  veritable 
fairy-tale.  Mardontius — for  thus  the  nobleman  is 
called — not  content  with  falling  desperately  in  love  at 
first  sight,  tells  her  that  her  kinswoman  lives  hard  by, 
and  Venetia  is  presently  under  a  friendly  roof,  safe, 
though  soiled. 

But  another  love  was  thus  added  to  her  discomfi- 
ture; and  as  time  brought  no  news  of  the  ever  faithful 
Digby,  Venetia,  listening  at  last  to  the  addresses  of 
Mardontius,  gave  him  her  portrait  as  a  pledge  of  a 
tempered  gratitude  rather  than  of  affection.  And 
even  now  misfortune  pursued  her,  for  Mardontius,  as 
though  secure  of  his  enchanting  mistress,  turned 
aside  for  a  while  to  woo  a  rustic  beauty,  until  Venetia, 
furious  at  the  slight,  banished  him  from  her  presence. 
But  this  misfortune  changed  to  happiness;  for  when 
the  truant  returned,  the  dismissal  of  Mardontius  made 
easier  the  reconciliation  of  the  parted  lovers,  who 
expressed  their  adoration  in  the  stateliest  periods,  pro- 


94  THEAGENES 

testing  the  while  that  upon  so  high  a  theme  "neither 
wit  nor  study  can  have  any  share  in  the  contexture  of 
what  one  saith."  Yet,  once  again,  scandal  interrupted 
the  course  of  passion,  and  saved  Sir  Kenelm — for  by 
this  he  had  been  knighted — from  the  suspicion  of  a 
too  easily  acquired  security.  The  busybodies  of  the 
Court,  eager  in  the  dispraise  of  Venetia,  assured  the 
traveller  that  during  his  absence  she  had  carried  on  a 
disgraceful  intrigue  with  a  notorious  nobleman ;  they 
whispered  venomously  in  his  ear  that  Mardontius  still 
treasured  the  lady's  portrait;  and,  though  Sir  Kenelm, 
upon  the  threat  of  a  duel,  won  an  apology  from  his 
repentant  rival,  his  soul  was  yet  unpurged  of  jealousy. 
Though  his  provocation  was  great,  his  lack  of  courage 
was  unpardonable,  and  when  he  should  publicly  have 
avowed  his  loyalty,  he  shuffled,  he  hesitated,  he  aped 
the  base  tactics  of  Ursatius,  he  pleaded  the  cause  of 
another.  At  last,  however,  his  own  love  and  the 
devotion  of  Venetia,  who  pawned  her  jewels  in  his 
service,  silenced  the  hoarse  voice  of  falsehood.  With 
a  secrecy,  which  was  a  proper  climax  to  this  whimsical 
series  of  misadventures,  the  lovers  were  at  last  united, 
and  henceforth  Sir  Kenelm  had  nought  to  regret  save 
the  deceit  of  his  friends  and  his  own  timidity. 

For  Venetia  was  not  only  the  most  accomplished, 
but  the  most  beautiful,  woman  of  her  age.  A  famous 
toast,  she  is  still  celebrated  in  the  ardent  verse  of  Ben 
Jonson.  Her  dark  hair  crowned  a  delicately  perfect 
oval;  her  brown  eyes  shone  irresistible  from  beneath 
their  gently  opening    lids.     She    was    no    taller  than 


THEAGENES  95 

became  a  woman ;  yet  there  was  an  heroical  dignity 
in  all  her  movements,  and  it  is  no  wonder  that  she 
was  unsurpassed  in  the  art  of  conquest.  Her  devotion 
to  Sir  Kenelm  knew  no  abatement  after  marriage,  and 
it  is  a  plain  discredit  that  for  two  years  he  kept  this 
honourable  alliance  secret.  But  he  would  have  been 
miserable  had  conscience  forced  him  to  accept  a 
common  situation,  and  it  was  not  until  he  set  out  for 
Scanderoon  with  letters  of  marque  that  he  paid  a 
tardy  justice  to  the  fairest  dame  in  England.  Hence- 
forth he  proved  himself  a  husband  who  was  still  a 
lover,  and  when  she  died — in  1633 — he  was  inconsol- 
able. 

But  even  in  the  moment  of  her  death  the    harsh 
croaking   of   scandal  was    heard.     She  was  poisoned, 
said    this    one,    because    jealousy    had     turned    her 
husband's  heart  to  hatred.     She  died,  said  that,  from 
a    draught    of  viper-wine,    given    her    by    Digby    to 
preserve  her  waning  beauty.     But  Sir  Kenelm,  wisely 
listening  neither  to  malice  nor    envy,  retired   in  sad 
silence  to  Gresham  College,  where  he  sought   forget- 
fulness    in    the    study    of    chemistry    and    the    other 
sciences.      Even  in  his  dress  he  shadowed  forth  his 
intolerable  grief.     For  two  years  he  wore  a  mourning 
cloak  and  a  high-cornered  hat;  his  unshorn  beard  and 
hair  unkempt  gave  him  the   appearance  of  a  hermit; 
and   he  who,  while   she   lived,  had  always  treasured  a 
cast  of  her  dainty  hand  and  daintier  foot,  set  up,  at 
her  death,   a    monument  worthy  her  beauty  and    his 
affection. 


96  THEAGENES 

Fortunate  in  his  marriage,  Kenelm  Digby  was  also 
fortunate  in  his  career.  As  he  was  adventurous  in  his 
youth,  so  he  might  have  boasted  in  his  age  that  he  had 
never  shirked  a  combat  nor  receded  from  an  argument. 
A  determined  duellist,  he  fought  his  way  across  Europe 
with  a  courage  and  address  which  the  Admirable  Crich- 
ton  might  have  envied,  and  never  once  was  he  worsted 
in  the  fray.  His  most  celebrated  battle  was  fought  at 
Madrid,  whither  he  had  attended  his  Prince  questing 
after  a  Spanish  marriage  ;  and  of  the  distinguished  com- 
pany gathered  at  the  southern  capital,  none  was  more 
highly  distinguished  than  the  youthful  Digby.  In  his 
own  eyes  the  mirror  of  knighthood,  he  imposed  by  his 
wit  and  courage  upon  all  the  gallants,  who  marvelled  at 
the  demure  elegance  of  Charles,  or  shrank  from 
Buckingham's  unscrupulous  intrigue.  No  sooner  had 
he  reached  Madrid  than  his  bravery  found  a  splendid 
occasion.  Truly,  in  one  night  he  lived  through  a 
whole  Spanish  romance,  and  Cervantes  himself  would 
not  have  disdained  to  tell  the  story  of  an  adventure  to 
which  no  element  of  picturesque  surprise  was  lacking. 

'Twas  the  first  evening  he  had  spent  in  the  southern 
city,  and  with  his  kinsman  John  Dive  and  another  he 
was  returning  to  his  lodging  from  the  Ambassador's 
house,  when  the  sound  of  music  and  singing  struck 
upon  his  ear.  The  evening  had  turned  the  heat  of 
the  day  to  a  pleasant  coolness,  and  the  three  English- 
men loitered  on  their  homeward  way,  enjoying  the 
pleasant  breeze  and  marvelling  at  the  sweetness  of  the 
strange  song.     Presently  they  discovered  the  wandering 


THEAGENES  97 

voice,  and  beheld  upon  a  trellised  balcony  a  fair  lady 
with  her  lute.  But  admiration  changed  instantly  to 
dismay,  for  no  sooner  had  they  gazed  with  reverence 
upon  her  beauty  than  fifteen  armed  men  rushed  from 
the  shadow  into  the  moonlight,  intent  upon  the 
murder  of  Dive,  their  ancient  enemy.  He,  on  the 
impulse  of  passion,  drew  his  sword  and  struck  the  first 
comer  so  terrible  a  blow  upon  the  head,  that  he  had 
fallen  dead  on  the  spot  had  he  not  been  protected  with 
a  goodly  cap  of  steel.  But  so  well  was  he  covered, 
that  Dive's  blade  was  shattered  to  a  hundred  pieces  ; 
and,  his  friend's  sword  suffering  a  like  fate,  he  knew 
no  other  course  than  to  run  for  aid,  and  to  leave  his 
kinsman  to  his  own  defence. 

Here,  indeed,  was  such  an  occasion  as  delighted  the 
fervent  courage  of  Kenelm  Digby.  On  the  one  side 
fifteen  armed  men,  bent  upon  vengeance,  on  the  other 
himself  and  his  single  blade.  Nor  was  his  task  lightened 
Dy  the  fitful  moonlight,  which  cast  ghostly  shadows  in 
every  corner,  obscuring  far  more  than  it  revealed. 
His  opponents,  moreover,  by  a  devilish  contrivance, 
had  fixed  lanthorns  upon  their  bucklers,  and  the  light 
being  thus  cast  forward,  they  remained  in  darkness, 
whiie  he  trembled  in  the  dazzling  glare.  On  all  sides 
of  him  flitted  the  Spaniards,  yet  never  for  an  instant 
was  his  courage  daunted.  A  wiser  man  had  taken  to 
his  heels,  but  Digby  valued  fearlessness  far  above 
agility,  and  he  was  prepared  to  thrust  and  parry  against 
the  fifteen  armed  and  covered  lanthorns. 

Once  only  did  he  attempt  to  parley,  when,  singling 

G 


98  THEAGENES 

out  the  master  of  them  all,  who  wore  over  his  jack 
of  mail  a  gold-embroidered  cassock,  he  asked  what 
injury  he  had  done  that  he  should  sustain  so 
vigorous  an  attack.  But  the  Spanish  lord  giving  an 
insolent  retort,  Kenelm  set  upon  his  enemies  with 
doubled  strength,  and  when  two  traitors  crept  behind 
to  perplex  him,  he  resolved  to  fight  his  way  through 
his  assailants  unto  safety.  And  so  stoutly  did  he  lay 
about  him,  that  he  cut  one  man's  head  in  two, 
and  running  another  through  the  belly  he  bade  him 
also  render  up  his  life.  Thus,  with  his  face  to  the 
foe,  he  retreated  to  the  Ambassador's  house,  and 
reached  the  haven  triumphant  and  unscathed.  To 
the  sceptic  the  fifteen  men  in  bucklers  and  coats  of 
mail  might  suggest  those  other  heroes  in  buckram  ; 
but  to  appreciate  Sir  Kenelm  you  must  needs  be 
credulous,  and  who  knows  but  he  would  have  with- 
stood the  whole  Spanish  army  arrayed  against  him  ? 

No  less  glorious  was  the  combat  wherein  he  main- 
tained  his  honour  in  the  teeth  of  that  infamous  swash- 
buckler, Lord  Mount  le  Ros.  It  was  during  the 
knight's  unhappy  exile  that  the  encounter  took  place, 
and  at  every  point  Sir  Kenelm  proved  himself  the 
more  valiant  gentleman.  The  provocation  was  given 
at  the  French  lord's  house,  where,  after  a  banquet, 
they  fell  to  the  drinking  of  healths.  Thus  they 
toasted  the  King  of  France  and  divers  others,  and 
Digby  lagged  no  whit  behind  the  rest  in  loyal 
enthusiasm.  At  last,  Mount  le  Ros,  with  the  pre- 
sumption of  a  wineskin,  clamoured  for  the  health  of 


THEAGENES  99 

the  arrantest  coward  in  Europe.  And  when  Sir 
Kenelm  asked  to  whom  he  should  raise  his  glass* 
"  Drink,"  cried  the  Frenchman,  "  and  when  you  have 
pledged  you  shall  know."  Sir  Kenelm,  innocent  of 
suspicion,  emptied  his  glass,  whereupon  answered  Lord 
Mount  le  Ros :  "  I  meant  vour  Kins:  of  England." 

The  next  day  the  French  lord  dined  with  Sir  Kenelm, 
and  being  provoked  by  another  toast  he  repeated  the 
same  insult,  and  Digby  was  instant  with  a  challenge* 
"  Twice,"  said  he,  "  you  have  reviled  the  best  King  in 
the  world  in  the  hearing  of  me,  his  faithful  subject, 
wherefore  I  demand  the  satisfaction  of  a  single 
combat,  where  either  you  shall  pay  your  life  for  your 
sauciness  or  I  will  give  mine  for  my  King."  Now, 
the  French  lord,  though  a  braggart,  was  a  man  of 
courage,  and  after  dinner  they  went  incontinent  upon 
the  field,  and,  plucking  off"  their  doublets,  made  ready 
for  the  fight.  But  Digby,  fearing  an  ambush, 
hastened  the  onset,  and  at  the  fourth  bout  ran  his 
sword  so  hard  through  the  Frenchman's  breast  that  it 
came  out  at  his  throat,  and  drove  before  it  the  last 
insolent  breath  of  Mount  le  Ros.  The  French  King 
did  not  lose  this  occasion  of  magnanimity.  "  Not  the 
proudest  lord  of  France,"  said  he,  "shall  cast  a  slur 
upon  my  brother  of  England."  And  so  he  pardoned 
Sir  Kenelm  his  violence,  and  gave  him  an  honourable 
escort  into  Flanders. 

"The  Magazine  of  all  the  Arts."  Thus  it  is  that 
a  contemporary  described  the  peerless  Digby.  And, 
trulv,   he   was   no   less  famous   for  his  eloquence  and 


ioo  THEAGENES 

erudition  than  for  his  bodily  strength  and  prowess. 
Having  spent  many  years  in  foreign  travel,  he  was  as 
familiar  with  French  and  Spanish  as  with  his  own 
English,  and  not  a  little  proud  of  the  accomplishment. 
Indeed,  said  an  admirer,  had  he  been  dropped  from  the 
clouds  upon  any  corner  of  the  globe,  he  would  have 
won  obedience  and  respect.  But,  added  his  detractors, 
he  must  not  stay  there  above  six  weeks.  Not  only 
was  he  master  of  strange  tongues :  he  wrote  his  own 
with  surpassing  elegance,  and  cultivated  the  ornate 
style  of  his  epoch  with  conspicuous  success.  The 
Private  Memoirs^  upon  which  his  fame  is  solidly 
established,  are  so  ingeniously  packed  with  self-adula- 
tion, that  they  were  certainly  designed  for  the  prying 
eye  of  the  public,  and  they  will  ever  remain  the 
noblest  monument  of  his  skill.  With  a  characteristic 
mystification,  he  tells  the  story  of  his  courtship,  giving 
his  personages  high-sounding,  inappropriate  names. 
Under  the  mask  of  Theagenes  he  lays  himself  at  the 
feet  of  an  imagined  Stelliana,  who  is  pestered  by  the 
loathed  addresses  of  Ursatius  and  Mardontius.  In  this 
fairyland,  Madrid  is  transformed  to  Alexandria,  and 
Paris,  not  Edinburgh,  masquerades  as  the  modern 
Athens.  But  the  colour  of  the  narrative  is  beyond 
praise,  and  surely  autobiography  never  took  on  so 
strange  a  complexion. 

After  the  fashion  of  his  age,  he  was  a  pedant  rather 
than  a  scholar.  There  was  no  superstition  he  would 
not  invest  with  a  spurious  importance,  and  he  would 
have  accepted  as  indisputable  truth  the  most  monstrous 


THEAGENES  101 

of  Sir  Thomas  Browne's  Popular  Errors.  For  him 
Aristotle  was  the  last  of  the  wise  men,  and  yet  his 
noble  allegiance  to  the  past  did  not  hinder  his  insatiable 
curiosity.  It  was  at  Oxford,  and  at  the  inspiration  of 
Thomas  Allen,  who  recognised  his  pupil  for  the 
Mirandola  of  his  age,  that  he  acquired  an  insatiable 
taste  for  astrology.  To  the  end  he  remained  a  zealous 
student  of  the  occult;  the  notorious  Evans  was  among 
his  friends  ;  and  many  were  the  experiments  he 
witnessed  in  the  half-guilty  seclusion  of  Gunpowder 
Alley.  He  vaunted,  in  fact,  the  coxcombry  of  scholar- 
ship. In  learning,  as  in  love,  he  treasured  romance 
before  all  things,  and  he  demanded  that  the  dish  of 
research  should  always  be  flavoured  with  the  spice  of 
charlatanry.  He  could  not  make  his  famous  journey 
to  Madrid  without  turning  aside  to  converse  with  a 
profound  and  cunning  Brahmin,  who  laid  bare  to  him 
those  secrets  of  Theosophism  which  have  since  become 
vulgar,  and  who  imposed  upon  his  faith  by  a  vision  of 
Venetia  bathed  in  tears. 

Thus  it  was  that  he  won  the  reputation  of  a  guile- 
less believer,  if  not  of  a  deliberate  impostor.  Evelyn, 
for  instance,  after  a  visit  to  his  laboratory  in  Paris, 
condemned  him  as  an  arrant  mountebank,  and  Stubbs 
in  his  fury  called  him  the  Pliny  of  his  age  for  lying. 
But  these  zealots  of  truth  misunderstood  Digby's 
fantastic  humour.  It  was  not  merely  that  he  was 
credulous  ;  he  delighted  to  measure  the  credulity  of 
others,  and  when  he  declared  that  in  Tripolis  he  had 
seen  a  city  turned  to  stone,  he  knew,  as  well  as  the 


102  THEAGENES 

rest,  the  extravagance  of  his  fiction.  But  the  Mercurius 
Politicus  printed  the  fable  ;  and  Sir  Kenelm  enjoyed 
the  wondering  folly  of  the  dolt,  no  less  than  the 
genuine  tribulation  of  the  patient  historian. 

In  all  things  he  would  appear  distinguished  or  at 
least  notorious.  To  be  in  the  mouths  of  men,  to  be 
pointed  at  with  the  finger  of  admiration,  were  com- 
pliments essential  to  his  happiness.  It  flattered  him 
to  be  thought  the  strongest  man  of  his  age,  and  he 
never  wearied  of  boasting  that  he  could  pick  up  the 
Earl  of  Bristol,  his  chair  and  all,  with  one  arm. 
Thus  he  would  acclaim  the  discoveries  of  his  intellect, 
preferring  even  ridicule  to  forgetfulness.  His  vanity, 
in  truth,  was  superb  ;  and  he  hymned  his  own  praises 
with  a  tireless  industry.  In  his  own  eyes  he  is 
perfect,  and  he  prophesies  the  highest  attainment  for 
himself,  "  if  a  lazy  desire  of  ease  or  some  other  dis- 
turbance do  not  interrupt  him."  His  Memoirs  are 
written  with  an  eloquence  and  energy  which  nothing 
would  justify,  save  the  glory  of  Kenelm  Digby.  "  I 
am  the  greatest  man  of  my  age,"  he  says  in  effect, 
"and  if  no  biographer  be  found  to  rejoice  in  my 
qualities,  I  disdain  to  deceive  the  world." 

Though  he  remained  constant  to  Venetia,  he  suffered 
his  life  long  from  the  importunity  of  amorous  ladies. 
The  Queen  of  France  created  a  scandal  by  her  shame- 
less courtship,  and  his  success  in  Spain  was  little  less 
brilliant.  At  Madrid  the  Captain  of  the  King's 
Guard  rallied  him  on  his  prudery.  "Your  mind," 
said  he  to  the  constant  Digby,  "  has  been  trained  up 


THEAGENE.S  103 

continually  in  scholastical  speculations  and  hath  always 
conversed  with  books  at  such  times  as  you  have  not 
exercised  your  body  in  the  use  of  arms  and  managing 
of  horses.  Why,  then,  do  you  pass  by  the  fairest 
faces  in  daily  indifference  ? "  And  so  Kenelm,  un- 
willing to  confess  that  any  excellence  was  lacking  to 
him,  made  a  wager  with  the  Grandee  that  he  would 
estrange  the  love  of  the  peerless  Donna  Anna  Maria 
Manrique.  He  was  the  more  eager  for  the  enterprise 
because  his  noble  heart  whispered  that  he  had  already 
lost  the  bet.  "  How  should  I  capture  the  lady's 
affection,"  thought  he,  "  when  my  love  is  feigned  ? " 
But,  alas  !  he  forgot  for  a  moment  the  invincibility  of 
his  charm.  Donna  Anna  surrendered  at  the  first 
assault ;  she  flung  herself  in  a  whirlpool  of  passion  at 
his  feet  ;  and  when  her  suit  was  refused  in  a  spirit  of 
virtuous  fidelity  to  another,  she  straightway  renounced 
the  world,  and  concealed  her  inauspicious  beauty 
within  the  walls  of  a  convent. 

Courtier,  scholar,  warrior,  politician,  Sir  Kenelm 
Digby  filled  his  life  with  a  thousand  triumphs.  He 
united  the  braggart  bravery  of  Cellini  with  the 
cunning  of  an  ancient  philosopher.  And  he  owed 
his  success  in  no  small  part  to  his  indefatigable 
aptitude.  "No  man  knew  better  how  to  abound  and 
to  be  abased,"  says  Aubrey,  and  every  turn  of  fortune 
was  welcome  to  him.  If  circumstances  smiled,  he 
accepted  their  favour  without  a  hint  of  surprise  ;  and 
if  to-morrow  his  household  were  reduced  to  a  single 
lackey,  he  laughed  at  a  humiliation  which  his  vanity 


io4  THEAGENES 

found  incongruous.  After  a  boyhood  spent  in  digni- 
fied obscurity,  he  set  out  upon  an  august  mission 
without  the  slightest  trepidation.  "  Henceforward," 
he  observes  with  a  colossal  simplicity,  "  my  fortunes 
mingled  themselves  with,  and  had  a  part  in,  the 
actions  of  great  princes."  His  self-esteem  was  de- 
lighted whatever  befell  him,  and  if  he  had  no  better 
audience  than  the  scholars  of  Montpellier,  he  trans- 
formed their  mediocrity  by  the  mere  contact  of  his 
wit  into  the  sublimated  genius  of  the  universe.  Even 
when  the  Pope  despised  his  intervention  and  pro- 
nounced him  mad,  he  did  but  "huff"  his  Holiness, 
and  leave  Rome  in  a  fit  of  generous  lamentation. 

When  the  learned  laughed  at  his  Chemistry,  and 
flouted  his  discourse  upon  the  Body  and  the  Soul, 
when  they  condemned  his  premature  reply  to  Religio 
Medici  as  an  act  of  bad  faith,  he  folded  his  giant  hands 
in  pity,  and  recommended  them  to  study  Mr.  White's 
Dialogue  of  the  World.  But  in  one  field  he  won 
universal  glory.  His  single  experiment  in  serious 
warfare  was  a  perfect  masterpiece.  Undertaken  with 
the  lightest  heart,  because  it  was  necessary  to  employ 
himself  in  some  generous  action,  it  was  carried  out 
with  a  good  luck  and  determination,  which  made 
light  of  disease  and  of  contrary  winds.  The  Battle 
of  Scanderoon,  fought  by  a  civilian  of  twenty-five, 
was  an  instant  victory.  Not  only  did  he  decline  the 
shameful  peace  offered  by  the  Venetians,  but  he 
straightway  attacked,  and  sank,  the  French  ships. 
Thus  he  earned  the  tribute  of  two  doggerel  lines  from 


THEAGENES  105 

Ben  Jonson,  and  if  his  prowess  could  not  increase  his 
own  self-esteem,  at  least  his  grandeur  was  proved  to  a 
doubtful  world. 

But  he  lived  in  an  age  of  treachery  and  deceit,  and 
it  is  political  intrigue  that  put  the  solitary  blot  upon 
his  respectable  career.  A  Royalist  in  person  and  in 
mind,  he  valiantly  espoused  the  cause  of  the  Prince  he 
had  served  so  faithfully  and  so  long.  And  yet  after 
Charles  had  laid  his  head  upon  the  block,  Sir  Kenelm 
is  found  living  upon  friendly  terms  with  the  usurping 
Cromwell.  Nay,  worse,  he  appears  to  have  accepted 
the  patronage  of  the  Protector  as  the  iniquitous  price 
of  a  return  from  exile.  And  though,  maybe,  he 
coquetted  with  his  enemies,  that  the  Catholics  might 
profit  by  his  subtlety,  though  he  retained  until  the 
end  the  friendship  of  Henrietta  Maria,  none  the  less 
he  profited  by  his  defection,  and  only  his  own 
casuistry  could  justify  the  lapse.  But  you  remember 
him  as  a  colossus  of  vanity,  who  would  have  smiled 
upon  the  blackest  vice,  if  it  were  but  his  own,  until  it 
seemed  the  only  virtue  ;  as  a  pedant,  who  corrected 
a  priggish  scholarship  with  a  sense  of  romance  ;  as  a 
writer,  who  handled  the  English  language  with  a 
judicious  pomp  ;  as  a  lover,  who  remained  constant 
to  Venetia,  even  when  scandal  had  besmirched  her 
fame.  And  if  these  glories  be  not  enough  to  win 
commendation,  the  most  obdurate  must  still  respect 
the  only  inventor  of  the  Sympathetic  Powder,  the 
valiant  and  thrice-fortunate  victor  of  Scanderoon. 


THE    REAL    PEPYS 


THE    REAL    PEPYS 

THERE  are  many  books  to  which  habit  and  per- 
version have  given  an  entirely  false  character. 
We  arrive  at  them  through  an  irresponsible  interpreter, 
who  has  clipped  or  embellished  his  original  in  accord- 
ance with  some  personal  whim.  When  Galland  pub- 
lished his  Thousand  and  One  Nights,  he  revealed  a 
world  of  phantasy  and  delight,  which  pornographic 
pedantry  will  never  abolish.  Here,  indeed,  is  an 
enchantment  far  gayer  than  the  truth  ;  and  none, 
with  the  memory  of  childhood  clear  and  strong,  will 
appreciate  the  dismal  accuracy  of  the  Benares  Press. 
So,  too,  we  who  know  not  Omar  Khayyam  in  his 
native  tongue,  may  rejoice  at  the  freedom  of  Edward 
Fitzgerald,  condemning  neither  adornment  nor  in- 
accuracy. Whether  Moore  and  Murray  did  good  or 
ill  by  the  world,  when  they  destroyed  Byron's  own 
Memoirs,  is  still  matter  for  conjecture  and  contro- 
versy. But  Pepys's  Diary,  edited  by  Mr.  Wheatley, 
has  afforded  us  an  indirect  opportunity  of  seeing  the 
bowdleriser  at  work,  and  it  is  proved  that  in  one 
instance  at  least  the  go-between  took  a  narrow  view 
of  his  proper  duty. 


no  THE  REAL  PEPYS 

Now,  when  the  transcription  of  Pepys's  Diary  came 
into  the  hands  of  Lord  Braybrooke,  the  Editor  had  a 
unique  occasion.  For  more  than  a  century  and  a  hair 
this  priceless  record  had  remained  undeciphered.  Had 
he  chosen,  he  might  have  displayed  Pepys's  own  in- 
comparable portrait.  But  the  time  (1825)  was  not 
favourable  to  daring  enterprise,  and  Lord  Braybrooke 
daubed  and  slashed  the  picture,  until  the  Secretary  to 
the  Admiralty,  the  most  many-sided  of  men,  was 
presented  only  in  one  or  two  aspects.  All  that  is  most 
joyous  and  intimate  was  ruthlessly  torn  away  without 
warning  or  explanation.  "  As  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
recording  the  most  trifling  occurrences  of  his  life,  it 
became  absolutely  necessary  to  curtail  the  MS.  mate- 
rially." So  said  the  Editor,  in  complete  misunderstand- 
ing of  the  truth  that  that  which  seems  most  trifling  is 
commonly  most  valuable.  Nor  did  Lord  Braybrooke 
explain  even  by  a  hint  the  real  cause  of  suppression. 
He  does  not  acknowledge  the  fear  of  alarming  the 
Philistines.  From  his  confession  you  might  believe 
that  all  the  sprightliest  passages  of  Pepys's  life  were 
duly  transcribed,  and  that  you  lost  nothing  save  the 
duller  details  of  an  official  career.  And  presently  you 
discover  that  not  only  has  he  omitted  every  syllable 
that  could  offend  the  chaste  ear  of  a  schoolgirl,  but  he 
has  also  sacrificed  a  hundred  delightfully  innocent 
passages.  In  truth,  he  had  a  feeble  discernment  of  his 
hero's  qualities.  He  even  forewarns  his  readers  that 
they  may  not  expect  in  the  Diary  "  accuracy  of  style 
or    finished    composition."     As  though  Pepys's    own 


THE  REAL  PEPYS  in 

dressing-gown  and  slippers  were  not  better  fitted 
for  their  purpose  than  the  gorgeous  satin  of  full 
dress  ! 

And  yet,  if  Lord  Braybrooke  fell  below  the  Editor's 
opportunity,   he   followed    the    craft    of  the   eminent 
Bowdler  with  some  success.     His  sin  was  less  than  the 
man's  who  laid  a  heavy  hand  upon  Shakespeare,  and  at 
least  he  had  a  chance    to  escape  detection.     Samuel 
Pepys  had  not  then  grown  into  a  classic  ;  the  sacrilege 
was  less  public,  less  wanton.     And  accordingly,  there 
being  none  to  find  him  out,  Lord  Braybrooke  invented 
a  Pepys  of  his  own.     He  was  not  the  real  Samuel;  not 
only  was  he  capable  of  misunderstanding,  he  was  gene- 
rally misunderstood.     It  was  with  a  certain  justifica- 
tion that  he  was  denounced  as  a  mean-souled,  pedantic 
miser.     His    sterner    foibles    were    displayed     to    the 
world's  wonderment  ;  his  more  genial  traits  were  con- 
cealed without  apology.     One  thing  only  was  realised 
even    in    Lord    Braybrooke's   mutilation  :    the   man's 
quaint    and     incomparably    appropriate    style.     That 
became   a   model  and   a  heritage  to   generations  that 
knew  but  a  fragment  of  the  Diary.   But  it  was  Pepys's 
appointed  destiny  to  smile  from  the  locked  bookcase. 
And   Lord  Braybrooke,  stepping  between  Providence 
and  the  world,  laid  the  Diary  upon  the  drawing-room 
table.      Not    a    mean    achievement,    and    not    wholly 
unworthy.     For    Samuel    Pepys    is    now    a    universal 
possession.     The   child    may  read    him  (in  the  timid 
pages  of  Braybrooke)   and    profit    thereby,   while  for 
the    scholar    is    there    not    the    freer   version    of  Mr. 


ii2  THE  REAL  PEPYS 

Mynors  Bright,  and  now  the  yet  more  liberal  edition 
of  Mr.  Wheatley  ? 

But    even    Mr.    Wheatley,    though    he    took    his 
courage  in  both  hands,  has  fallen  thirty  pages  short  of 
perfection.      We    are    still    cheated    of  the    complete 
Pepys,  and  the  sin  is  the  worse  because  it  is  without 
reason.     Mr.  Wheatley  asks  you  to  have  faith  in  his 
judgment,  and  you  cannot.     He  has  printed  so  much 
that  it   is   difficult   to  explain  why  he  has  omitted   a 
line.     The  prude  will  find  his  edition  abominable,  not 
only  for  coarseness  of  speech,   but  for  coarseness  of 
fact.     With  an  admirable  bravery,  the  editor  has  put 
down  upon  the  page  the  words  which  are  heard  at  the 
street  corner,  but  are  banished  from  literature ;  nor  has 
he  scrupled  to  record  the  lightest  of  the  diarist's  frailties. 
To  those  who  are  not  impure  with  the  higher  purity, 
there  is  no  offence   in  this    frankness,  and   since  this 
latest  edition  is  properly  hedged  about  from  popularity 
by   its  price,  there  was    no  need  of  reticence.     But 
Mr.    Wheatley    has    omitted    thirty    pages,    and     it 
is   impossible   to   withhold   this   single  complaint,  for 
the    very    reason    that    Mr.    Wheatley    has    come    so 
near  to  perfection.     In  all  other  respects  the  edition 
is    secure    from    reproach  :    the    notes    are    miracles 
of  condensed    information,   and    the    Editor   in    sup- 
pressing himself  has  consulted  the  best  interests  of  his 
author.     Briefly,  at  last  we  are  face  to  face  with  the 
real  Pepys,  the  most  intimate  and  engaging  personality 
in  literature  ;    and  Mr.  Wheatley's  courage  has  not 
only  given  us  the  most  delightful  of  books,  but  has 


THE  REAL  PEPYS  113 

done  complete,  if  tardy,  justice  to  the  reputation  of 
Samuel  Pepys. 

Mr.  Lowell  once  described  the  author  of  the  Diary 
as  a  Philistine,  and  the  whole  world  of  criticism  does 
not  contain  a  falser  judgment.  Doubtless,  this  par- 
ticular critic  trusted  implicitly  to  his  Braybrooke, 
when  the  fuller  edition  of  Mr.  Mynors  Bright  should 
have  enlightened  him.  And  thus  you  may  test  the 
infamy  of  bowdlerising,  since  no  man  has  ever  been 
more  wantonly  misrepresented  than  Pepys.  One 
professional  historian  of  English  literature,  I  believe, 
has  discovered  that  the  Secretary  to  the  Admiralty 
lacked  enthusiasm  !  But  even  the  edition  of  1825 
might  have  corrected  this  amazing  fallacy.  From 
beginning  to  end  Pepys's  life  was  packed  with  enthu- 
siasm :  he  wandered  from  one  joyous  sensation  to 
another  ;  and  he  never  underrated  the  pleasure  of  the 
moment.  None  save  our  professional  historian  would 
condemn  to  a  lack  of  enthusiasm  the  man  who,  after 
an  evening  passed  with  Mrs.  Pierce,  Mrs.  Knipp,  and 
his  wife,  wrote  in  his  journal :  "  I  spent  the  night  in 
ecstasy  almost,  the  best  company  for  musique  I  ever 
was  in,  and  I  wish  I  could  live  and  die  in  it."  Is  that 
the  utterance  of  a  cold-blooded  cynic  ? 

But  Mr.  Lowell's  folly  is  yet  more  monstrous  than 
the  professional  historian's.  The  charge  of  Philistinism 
has  not  the  smallest  warrant.  A  Philistine  has  been 
defined  as  one  insensible  to  the  finer  flavours  of  life  ; 
and  surely  he  must  needs  be  narrow-minded,  prudish, 
pedantic,    hide-bound    and    impossible.     Now,    Pepys 

H 


H4  THE  REAL  PEPYS 

was  as  free  from  the  grimmer  sins  as  any  roysterer 
that  ever  kissed  a  woman  or  pledged  his  King 
in  a  glass  of  sack.  No  man  was  ever  born  into 
England  with  so  complete  a  disregard  for  those 
depressing  virtues  bequeathed  us  by  the  Puritans.  In 
only  one  point  could  Mr.  Lowell  make  good  his 
charge  :  it  is  obvious  that  Pepys  was  thrifty  ;  he  was 
penurious  even  in  his  amours.  But  though  the  love 
of  money  may  be  the  root  of  all  evil,  it  is  not  the 
inevitable  result  of  Philistinism;  and  nothing  but 
ignorance  or  a  love  of  paradox  could  call  this  most 
liberal  lover,  this  keenest  observer,  this  fiercest  glutton 
of  pleasure,  a  Philistine.  When  critics  play  such 
pranks  as  this,  you  doubt  they  have  mastered  the  art 
and  science  of  reading.  Here  is  the  gayest,  most 
wayward  of  men  exulting  through  eight  volumes  in 
the  lust  of  the  eye  and  the  glorification  of  the  senses ; 
and,  while  one  pedant  damns  him  for  a  Philistine, 
another  declares  that  he  wants  enthusiasm  ! 

But  Lord  Braybrooke,  in  his  respect  for  the  drawing- 
room  table,  emphasised  the  few  faults  and  minimised 
the  abundant  virtues  of  this  perfect  worldling.  And 
the  critics  have  been  at  small  pains  to  correct  their 
childish  impression  by  recent  studies  :  the  disjointed 
fragments  of  the  earlier  editions  persuaded  the  pedants 
to  laugh  in  their  sleeve  at  the  man  they  were 
not  allowed  to  understand.  But  misconception  is 
no  longer  excusable,  and  with  Mr.  Wheatley's  aid 
you  may  know  Pepys  better  than  you  know  yourself 
or  your  most  intimate  friend.     For  Pepys  is  the  one 


THE  REAL  PEPYS  115 

familiar  man  in  history :  he  knew  himself,  and 
more,  he  knew  how  to  reveal  himself  to  others. 
He  approached  his  subject  in  no  mean  spirit  of 
analysis  ;  he  did  not  whittle  away  his  emotions  in 
psychological  anatomy.  He  kept  a  journal,  but  he 
did  not  live  up  to  it.  Now  such  amateurs  of  auto- 
biography as  Mary  Bashkirtseff  never  forget  the 
diary:  they  spend  their  days  and  their  nights  in 
making  "  copy  "  for  their  own  record.  They  smirk 
and  squirm  and  posture  that  one  more  folly  may  be 
written  down  at  the  day's  end.  But  Pepys  did  not 
sparkle  through  the  day  with  his  eye  upon  a 
note-book.  He  went  about  his  business,  and  he 
rejoiced  in  his  pleasure,  without  pose  or  forethought, 
and  when  it  was  over,  he  found  an  added  delight  in 
describing  for  his  own  eye  the  triumphs  or  failures  of 
the  hour. 

Above  all,  he  is  the  frankest  man  in  history  : 
he  is  frank  even  to  himself.  The  veriest  fool,  the 
commonest  knave  can  cultivate  an  appearance  of 
frankness  to  the  world.  But  Pepys's  achievement 
was  far  higher  and  less  simple.  He  looked  at 
himself  with  absolute  straightforwardness,  and  could 
understand  his  own  vanities  —  could  measure  his 
own  vices  without  difficulty.  He  never  seeks  a 
fantastic  motive  ;  he  never  excuses  the  grossest 
wantonness.  He  extenuates  nothing — not  even  the 
faults  of  his  friends.  Here,  then,  is  the  one  man 
we  have  been  permitted  to  know,  as  we  shall 
never  know  ourselves.     Let  us,  then,  make  the  most 


n6  THE  REAL  PEPYS 

of  him  :  let  us  do  homage  to  the  one  master  of  self- 
revelation  that  history  can  furnish  forth. 

A  lust  of  being  and  moving,  of  exercising  his  senses 
to  their  utmost,  governed  his  existence.  Unnumbered 
and  innumerable  are  his  crowded  hours  of  glorious  life. 
The  man  who  "  is  with  child  to  see  any  strange  thing  " 
is  neither  cynic  nor  Philistine.  Nothing  came  amiss 
to  him.  He  was  as  pleased  with  Sir  George  Ent's 
discourse  upon  "  Respiration "  as  he  was  with  the 
peerless  beauty  of  Lady  Castlemaine.  Only  he  must 
always  be  doing,  or  hearing,  or  seeing  some  new  thing. 
To-day  he  is  singing  with  Knipp,  and  listening  with 
a  hungry  ear  to  the  praise  of  his  famous  song,  "  Beauty, 
Retire  ; "  to-morrow  he  is  discussing  with  Dr.  Whistler 
whether  masts  should  be  kept  dry  or  damp.  Now  he 
goes  to  Will's  to  meet  "  Dryden  the  poet  (I  knew  at 
Cambridge)  "  ;  now  he  is  chaffering  for  cloves  with 
some  poor  seamen  in  a  "  blind  alehouse."  And  all  the 
while  he  is  drinking  in  life  at  its  abundant  source. 
His  zest  is  almost  too  violent,  and  you  wonder  how  he 
could  have  sustained,  through  many  years  of  suffering, 
this  ferocious  energy  of  enjoyment ;  how  he  remained 
firm  in  this  dogged  determination  to  miss  no  minute 
of  lapsing  time.  But  to  his  industry  no  transition 
seemed  abrupt :  he  turned  from  his  mistress  to  his 
accounts  without  weariness  or  regret,  and  no  sooner 
had  he  found  an  end  of  his  figures  than  he  was  ready 
to  play  again  with  all  the  spirit  of  a  released  schoolboy. 
His  philosophy  was  the  most  arrogant  that  ever  a  man 
about  town  imagined.     "Read  every  book,"  he  said  in 


THE  REAL  PEPYS  117 

effect,  "  see  every  play,  empty  every  wine-cup,  kiss 
every  woman."  And  when  he  died,  in  all  piety  he 
might  have  owned  that  he  never  missed  an  opportunity. 
Alexander  conquered  the  world  ;  but  Pepys,  with  a 
keener,  more  selfish  understanding  of  life,  conquered 
a  world  for  every  sense.  He  could  not  take  a  boat 
without  singing  to  the  "skuller  "  ;  he  could  not  meet 
a  Dutch  bellman  without  taking  his  clapper  in  his 
hand,  without  noting  that  "  it  is  just  like  the  clapper 
that  our  boys  frighten  the  birds  away  from  the  corn 
with  in  summer  time  in  England." 

But  in  all  his  research,  in  all  his  desire  to  penetrate 
the  mysteries  of  science,  there  is  no  touch  of  pedantry. 
He  was  not  one  to  encumber  himself  with  the  impedi- 
ments of  useless  knowledge.  He  learnt  all  that  he 
could  with  the  lightest  heart  and  the  merriest  smile. 
For  he  had  but  two  motives  in  his  life  :  pleasure  and 
self-advancement.  Mr.  R.  L.  Stevenson,  the  most 
valiant  champion  of  Pepys  and  his  Diary,  wrote,  maybe 
in  a  moment  of  morbid  self-consciousness,  that  he  was 
happy  but  once.  Samuel  Pepys  knew  only  the  briefest 
interludes  of  displeasure.  For  ten  years  he  screamed 
aloud  with  happiness,  in  so  confident  a  tone  that  you 
wonder  that  he  was  not  always  trying  to  dodge  the 
nemesis  of  his  own  pleasures.  "In  this  humour  we 
sat  till  about  ten  at  night,"  he  writes,  of  himself,  and 
Evelyn,  and  Sir  J.  Minnes,  and  my  Lord  Bruncker — 
"and  so  my  Lord  and  his  mistress  home,  and  we  to 
bed,  it  being  one  of  the  times  of  my  life  wherein  I  was 
the  fullest  of  true  sense  of  joy."    "  True  sense  of  joy  " 


n8  THE  REAL  PEPYS 

—is  it  not  magnificent  ?  And  the  phrase  may  be 
matched  upon  every  page.  Yet  says  the  professional 
historian  of  literature  :   "  Pepys  lacked  enthusiasm  "  ! 

Nor  was  it  part  of  his  creed  to  put  off  till  to-morrow 
what  might  be  enjoyed  to-day.  His  was  the  Epi- 
cureanism of  Horace.  "  Carpe  diem  "  he  shouted  in 
his  joyous  voice.  "  I  do  indulge  myself  a  little  the 
more  in  pleasure,"  said  he  by  way  of  excuse  to  himself, 
"knowing  that  this  is  the  proper  age  of  my  life  to  do 
it  ;  and  out  of  my  observation  that  most  men  that 
do  thrive  in  the  world,  do  forget  to  take  pleasure 
during  the  time  that  they  are  getting  their  estate,  but 
reserve  that  till  they  have  got  one,  and  then  it  is  too 
late  for  them  to  enjoy  it  with  any  pleasure."  So  Pepys 
let  not  an  hour  pass  unchallenged,  and  by  a  youth  of 
pleasure  prepared  an  old  age  of  happiness. 

He  loved  the  amenities  of  life  :  art,  music,  a 
new  coat,  the  songs  of  birds,  the  river,  the  open 
air  were  his  perpetual  delight.  But  before  all  things 
he  loved  a  pretty  woman.  At  the  outset  he  was 
but  a  modest  wooer.  He  once — it  was  on  his 
return  from  Delft — sat  side  by  side  with  "a  pretty 
sober  Dutch  lass,"  and  "I  could  not  fasten  any 
discourse  upon  her,"  he  declares  in  a  bland  confession 
of  failure.  During  the  same  journey  to  Holland  he 
found  "a  pretty  Dutch  woman  in  bed  alone,"  and, 
"  though  he  had  a  month's  mind,  he  had  not 
the  boldness  to  go  to  her."  But  in  a  year's 
space  his  boldness  was  invincible.  And  the  Diary,  as 
we  know  it  at  last,  is  a  paean  to  the  triumph  of  love. 


THE  REAL  PEPYS  119 

He  might  have  said  with  truth  that  he  never  saw  a 
pretty  woman  that  he  did  not  salute.     A  bright  eye 
lit  up  for  him  the  darkest  sermon.     The  austerity  of 
Church  was  but  an  occasion  for  the  ogling  of  beauty. 
For  every  woman  he  has  a  magnificent  phrase.    "Our 
noble,   brave,  fat   lady,"   he  calls  Madame  Lethulier, 
when  he  saw  her  at  church.     Not  even  his  bitterest 
enemy  could  call  his  patriotism   in   question,  and  yet 
hot  upon  the  defeat  of  the   Dutch   fleet   he  writes  : 
"  that  which  pleased  me  as  much  as  the  newes  was  to 
have  the   fair   Mrs.   Middleton    at   our   church,   who 
indeed  is  a  very  beautiful  lady."     Two  qualities  only 
did  he  abhor  in  woman  :   avarice  and  that  immodesty 
which  sets  no  barriers  in  the  path  of  love.    So  he  hated 
Mrs.  Lane  with  a  freely  expressed  cordiality.     For  not 
only  was  she  a  too  easy  mistress,  but  she  borrowed  ^5 
upon  the  firm  security  of  £4.   10s.  in  gold — a  transac- 
tion whereat  the  business  habits  of  the  excellent  Pepys 
most  properly  revolted. 

To  kiss  and  tell  is  righteously  esteemed  the  un- 
pardonable sin.  Yet  Pepys  kissed  every  day,  and 
confided  the  exploit  to  his  Diary.  But  by  the  wittiest 
inspiration  of  genius  he  made  this  ultimate  confidence, 
not  in  bald  English,  but  in  an  infantile  jargon,  wherein 
French  and  Spanish  and  Latin  are  unequally  blended. 
And  you  think  that  he  employed  this  artifice,  lest  the 
secret  journal,  conscious  of  his  shame,  should  change 
its  ink  to  a  blushing  scarlet.  Nowhere  else  does  he 
reveal  so  openly  the  master  frailty  of  his  temperament 
The    record   was    (let   us  assume)   for   himself  alone. 


120  THE  REAL  PEPYS 

His  vanity  insisted  that  he  should  remind  himself  that 
he  passed  the  evening  with  Mrs.  Bagwell  or  with 
Mrs.  Martin  ;  his  honour  whispered  that  it  was 
monstrous  to  tell  the  truth,  intended  only  for  his 
single  eye,  in  plain  English.  Wherefore  he  invented 
a  lingo  of  his  own  to  salve  a  callous  conscience.  The 
contradiction  is  exquisite  and  characteristic.  In  these 
poor  phrases  of  illegitimate  French,  you  seem  to  catch 
the  cunning  casuistical  brain  of  Samuel  Pepys  in 
perfect  action.  Upon  every  page  he  reveals  himself 
with  obvious  intent ;  here  he  lays  bare  his  conscience 
with  an  inadvertent  subtlety.  And  the  effect  is 
almost  too  acute.  You  are  not  merely  looking  over 
his  shoulder  ;  you  seem  to  be  guiding  the  hand  that 
writes. 

By  his  own  account  a  more  general  lover  never 
lived.  He  made  his  conquests  on  the  highway  or  in 
the  kitchen.  That  he  may  dally  with  the  wife,  he  sends 
the  husband  forth  to  purchase  wine,  and  presently 
offers  him  a  purser's  place.  When  his  sister  Pall 
would  marry,  he  recommends  Mr.  Harman,  the 
upholsterer,  "  to  whom  I  have  a  great  love,  and  did 
heretofore  love  his  former  wife."  But  to  be  found  out 
was  in  his  eyes  a  cardinal  sin.  And  when  Creed 
disgraced  himself  at  Oxford,  Pepys  was  the  first  to 
condemn  his  indiscretion.  Now  and  again  a  wave  of 
penitence  swept  over  the  golden  sands  of  his  com- 
placency. "  Musique  and  women,"  he  acknowledges, 
with  regret,  "  I  cannot  but  give  way  to,  whatever  my 
business  is."     And  again  :  "  I  observe  the  folly  of  my 


THE  REAL  PEPYS  121 

mind  that  cannot  refrain  from  pleasure."  Even  his 
good  resolutions  are  made  but  to  be  broken.  "  I  have 
made  an  oathe,"  says  he  one  day,  "  for  the  drinking  of 
no  wine,  &c,  on  such  penalties  till  I  have  passed  my 
accounts  and  cleared  all."  And  in  a  week  he  con- 
fesses that  he  has  broken  his  oath  "  without  pleasure." 
"  Without  pleasure " — that  is  the  one  phrase  in  the 
book  that  one  is  persuaded  to  mistrust.  For  the  first 
and  last  time  Pepys  seems  to  be  posing,  to  be 
cutting  an  antic  before  a  mirror.  Had  he  said  the 
wine  was  bad,  you  had  understood  him.  But  were 
the  wine  good,  you  know  that,  oath  or  no  oath,  Pepys 
would  have  delighted  in  it. 

Yet  amidst  all  the  frivolity  and  selfishness  of  his 
time,  Pepys  remained  a  patriot.  While  the  Dutch 
were  threatening  our  coasts,  the  Secretary's  mind  was 
troubled  the  more  if  it  rained,  "to  think  what  the 
sailors  would  do  on  board  in  all  this  weather."  When 
the  Plague  drove  all  save  heroes  and  paupers  from 
London,  Pepys  remained  at  his  post  in  the  very  best 
of  good  humours,  serving  his  country  with  unbated 
zeal.  In  a  hopelessly  corrupt  age,  he  took  no  more 
commissions  than  should  satisfy  his  necessities ;  and 
the  glory  of  the  British  fleet  overcame  in  his  regard 
the  plumpest  cheek,  the  most  provoking  eye.  But 
his  services  to  his  country — are  they  not  told  in 
Lord  Braybrooke's  chastened  page,  and  heightened  by 
many  an  entertaining  contrast  in  Mr.  Wheatley's  more 
spirited  version  ? 

Was  Pepys  an  artist  ?     This  is  the  question  which 


122  THE  REAL  PEPYS 

has  grimly  agitated  the  critics.  Yet  the  answer 
seems  easy  :  assuredly  he  was.  He  understood  the 
art  of  life  incomparably  well.  He  never  opposed  his 
absorbing  greed  of  sensation  ;  he  bent  all  the  sterner 
considerations  of  time  to  the  full  enjoyment  of  the 
moment.  And  the  severest  critic  will  hardly  detect  a 
single  fault  in  the  interpretation  of  his  wishes.  He 
was  an  artist  also  in  frankness,  in  that  rare  quality 
which,  despite  (or  on  account  of)  its  simplicity,  is  far 
more  difficult  of  attainment  than  the  highest  heaven. 
The  artistic  result  of  which  is  that  he  has  given  us 
such  a  picture  of  a  man  as  is  approached  nowhere  else 
than  in  Bos  well's  Life  of  Johnson.  Once  it  was 
fashionable  to  believe,  with  Macaulay,  that  Boswell's 
was  an  idiot  grinning  through  a  horse-collar.  It  is 
still  popular  to  assert  that  Pepys  is  a  garrulous  braggart, 
who  has  amused  the  nineteenth  century  by  accident. 
But  in  the  world  of  art  accidents  do  not  happen,  and 
the  peculiar  excellence  of  the  Diary  is  as  firmly 
intentioned  as  a  play  by  Shakespeare  or  a  lyric  by 
Tennyson. 

Pepys  set  out  to  give  himself  a  finished  record 
of  his  life,  and  while  his  modesty  shrank  from 
immediate  publication,  he  doubtless  intended  posterity 
to  enjoy  the  fruit  of  his  ceaseless  labour.  That  the 
manuscript,  with  its  cipher  explained,  should  have 
been  carefully  and  generously  bequeathed  to  Magdalene 
College  is  proof  positive  that  Pepys  had  a  certain 
conscious  respect  for  his  own  work.  Had  the  journal 
been  the  idle,  lazy  vapourings  of  an  amiable  loafer,  it 


THE  REAL  PEPYS  123 

would  have  been  destroyed  before  its  indiscretions 
could  have  annoyed  a  wondering  world.  But  the 
journal  was  the  one,  long,  deliberate  effort  of  Pepys's 
life,  and  it  is  idle  to  deny  the  title  of  artist  to  the  man 
who  has  drawn  the  living  portrait  of  a  living  man. 

Even  by  his  style,  Samuel  Pepys  may  claim  the 
august  title.  For  its  very  looseness  is  perfectly  appro- 
priate. He  had  already  made  an  experiment  in 
literature  when,  at  Cambridge,  he  began  his  romance 
Love  a  Cbcate.  And  if,  as  he  said,  he  had  lost  one 
vein,  most  assuredly  he  found  another.  His  manner- 
isms, his  monotony,  his  constant  vise  of  the  stereo- 
typed phrases  of  the  day,  give  to  his  Diary  an  air  of 
reality  which  a  more  deliberate  method  would  have 
missed.  And,  as  I  have  said,  it  is  the  fuller  edition 
which  has  displayed  his  art  in  the  strongest  light. 
Nor  has  the  candour  of  Mr.  Wheatley  deprived  a 
single  human  being  of  legitimate  pleasure.  Though 
for  us  the  old  Pepys  is  dead,  though  not  even  a  pro- 
fessor will  ever  dare  again  to  call  him  either  Philistine 
or  cold-blooded,  the  scrappy  broken  transcription  of 
Lord  Braybrooke  may  still  adorn  the  schoolroom  and 
the  home.  But  at  last  the  locked  bookcase  is  the 
richer  by  a  genuine  and  deathless  version  of  an  incom- 
parable classic. 


SAINT-SIMON 
I 


SAINT-SIMON 

I. — Himself. 

LOUIS  DE  ROUVROY,  Due  de  Saint-Simon, 
was  born  old,  the  son  of  an  old  father.  His 
earliest  years  were  devoted  less  to  the  trivial  sports  of 
childhood  than  to  the  study  of  science  and  history, 
and  when  at  the  age  of  sixteen  he  put  on  the  uniform 
of  the  Grey  Musketeers  he  was  not  only  a  scholar 
but  a  man  of  the  world.  He  records  his  presentation 
to  the  King  with  his  habitual  irony  and  circumspec- 
tion. It  was  at  half-past  twelve  on  the  day  of  Saint 
Simon  and  Saint  Jude,  in  1691,  that  he  made  his  first 
bow.  The  King,  finding  him  small  and  delicate, 
objected  that  he  was  still  very  young.  "  He  will 
serve  your  Majesty  the  longer,"  replied  his  father  with 
an  old-fashioned  loyalty  to  which  the  more  punctilious 
and  wayward  son  never  attained.  And,  though  his 
service  was  neither  long  nor  constant,  he  advanced 
rapidly  in  the  Royal  favour.  Three  months  after  he 
was  admitted  Musketeer  he  mounted  guard  at  Com- 
piegne ;  he  was  equipped  with  thirty-five  horses, 
innumerable  servants,  and  as  much  monev  as  he  cared 


128  SAINT-SIMON 

to  spend  ;  while  his  rank  admitted  him  instantly  to 
the  narrow  circle  of  the  Court.  So  that  at  seventeen 
he  had  danced  his  first  step  before  a  brilliant  assembly 
in  the  King's  palace  with  the  accomplished  Made- 
moiselle de  Sourches  for  a  partner,  and  he  had  already 
mastered  the  recondite  secrets  of  etiquette  and 
genealogy. 

His  character  and  career  show  no  progress,  or  rather 
his  youth  was  never  immature.  What  he  was  at 
forty,  that  he  was  already  at  nineteen — set,  hard- 
witted,  and  bitter-tongued.  So  long  as  he  remained 
a  soldier  his  courage  and  energy  were  unquestioned. 
He  distinguished  himself  by  five  dashing  charges  at 
Neerwinden,  where  he  not  only  outstripped  his  escort 
but  tired  two  horses.  Nevertheless  he  speedily  dis- 
covered that  warfare  was  not  his  profession.  The 
long  idleness  of  a  dragging  campaign  was  insupport- 
able to  his  restless  spirit.  He  found  his  brother 
soldiers  coarse  and  slatternly ;  they  understood  his 
ambitions  as  little  as  they  respected  his  serene  arro- 
gance ;  and  though  he  was  a  captain  at  eighteen,  and 
a  year  later  had  purchased  a  regiment  of  cavalry,  his 
curiosity  drove  him  rather  to  the  Court  than  to  the 
field. 

Indeed,  his  first  campaign  was  no  sooner  over 
than  he  was  ambitious  of  a  distinguished  alliance,  and 
he  set  about  marrying  himself  with  the  cold  blood  of 
a  professional  matchmaker  and  the  cunning  of  an 
ancient  diplomatist.  He  went  forth  upon  his  love- 
making    without    excitement    and    without    passion. 


SAINT-SIMON  129 

His  terrific  precocity  put  pleasure  and  sentiment  far 
from  him.  The  wooing  well  became  one  who  had 
never  sown  a  handful  of  wild  oats,  and  who  would 
never  be  influenced  by  any  tenderer  emotion  than 
pride  and  expedience.  He  began,  in  fact,  by  selecting 
his  father-in-law,  and  so  far  he  could  not  have  been 
more  wisely  guided.  For  the  Due  de  Beauvilliers 
was  a  Marshal  of  France  and  governor  of  the  Due  de 
Bourgogne,  so  that  he  would  possess  not  only  the  will 
but  the  power  to  help  a  favoured  son-in-law.  Saint- 
Simon  instantly  realised  the  advantage,  and  there  is 
not  the  smallest  hint  that  he  was  swayed  by  affection, 
admiration,  or  the  desire  of  happiness.  He  was  a 
duke ;  he  was  wealthy  ;  he  was  out  of  debt.  He 
expected  no  dowry,  and  he  was  indifferent  to  beauty. 
But  he  would  marry  into  a  powerful  family  ;  upon 
that  he  was  resolved  at  nineteen  j  wherefore  he  boldly 
waited  upon  M.  de  Beauvilliers,  and  exposed  his 
ambition  without  phrase  or  hesitation. 

The  father  was  flattered  by  the  attention  thus 
paid  to  his  daughter  and  to  his  house,  and  if  only 
he  had  had  a  marriageable  daughter  all  would  have 
been  well.  But  Saint-Simon,  in  spite  of  his  cir- 
cumspection, had  aspired  to  the  unattainable.  For 
the  eldest  girl — she  was  but  fourteen — had  already 
determined  to  espouse  the  Church  ;  the  second 
was  deformed  ;  the  third  was  a  child  of  twelve. 
But  the  young  Saint-Simon  was  unabashed:  if  the 
eldest  were  vowed  to  religion,  he  would  content 
himself  with  the  third.     After  all  age    was    of  little 

1 


1 3o  SAINT-SIMON 

account,  and  did  not  the  late  Due  de  Martemont 
marry  the  sister-in-law  of  M.  de  Beauvilliers  himself 
when  she  had  not  turned  her  thirteenth  year  ? 
So  he  had  a  precedent  ready  for  the  most  desperate 
emergency,  and  it  was  not  his  fault  that  M.  de 
Beauvilliers  dismissed  him  with  a  courtly  acknow- 
ledgment of  gratitude.  Moreover,  Saint-Simon  had 
won  his  end.  If  he  could  not  espouse  Mademoiselle 
de  Beauvilliers,  he  had  won  the  family  ;  his  handsome 
compliment  had  attached  the  friendship  of  her  father, 
and  thus  he  was  free  to  marry  Mademoiselle  de 
Lorges  without  sacrificing  the  support  of  a  great 
soldier  and  a  Royal  favourite. 

A  boy  who  could  thus  formulate  his  opinion  of  life 
was  evidently  devoid  neither  of  cynicism  nor  conceit, 
and  his  second  exploit  immensely  increased  his  fame. 
M.  de  Luxembourg,  returning  to  Paris  flushed  with 
victory,  claimed  to  be  placed  over  the  heads  of  seven- 
teen dukes,  who  hitherto  had  taken  precedence  of 
him.  Here  was  a  crisis,  which  instantly  attracted  the 
energies  of  Saint-Simon,  who,  young  as  he  was,  felt 
that  the  privileges  of  his  order  were  attacked.  With- 
out pity  or  fatigue  he  flouted  the  pretensions  of  M.  de 
Luxembourg,  and  in  thus  early  leading  the  opposition 
he  buckled  to  himself  a  band  of  enemies  who  never 
forgot  nor  forgave.  But  the  young  Quixote  was 
unabashed  :  he  saw  his  order  affronted,  and  a  passion- 
ate admiration  of  the  ducal  body  was  as  strong  in  his 
heart  as  the  love  of  the  Church.  He  fought  the 
fio-ht  against  the  superior  odds  of  King  and  Parlia- 


SAINT-SIMON  131 

ment,  and  he  lost.  But  the  failure  did  not  abate  his 
sense  of  honour  and  well-doing  :  he  never  was  recon- 
ciled to  M.  de  Luxembourg,  and  his  first  experiment 
in  militant  egoism  gave  him  that  eager  taste  for  the 
fray  which  he  only  lost  with  death. 

Meanwhile,  his  fortunate  alliance  with  the  family  of 
the  Marechal  de  Lorges  had  bettered  his  position  at 
Court,  and  it  was  already  the  part  of  envious  intrigue 
to  oppose  his  advance.  The  narrow  world  in  which 
he  had  elected  to  live  resented  his  assumption  of 
superior  pride  as  bitterly  as  they  feared  the  sting  of  his 
malignant  tongue.  Before  long  he  saw  all  hopes  of 
military  advancement  eclipsed.  His  own  regiment 
was  taken  from  him,  and  his  juniors  placed  unscrupu- 
lously over  his  head.  Now,  no  man  ever  sat  down  less 
lightly  under  an  injury  than  Saint-Simon.  Was  he 
not  a  duke,  who  conferred  a  glory  upon  the  army  by 
his  presence  ?  None  the  less,  he  hesitated  many  a 
weary  month,  lamenting  the  prospect  of  enforced 
laziness,  and  those  long  summers  of  inactivity,  when 
all  men  should  speak  of  war,  glory,  and  promotion. 
Besides,  he  declares  that  he  had  caught  the  enthusiasm 
of  his  trade,  that  he  already  dreamt  of  victory  and 
fame  ;  and  though,  perhaps,  he  was  here  guilty  of 
self-deception,  he  determined  to  resign  only  after  long 
and  mature  reflection. 

The  occasion,  in  truth,  was  not  one  for  haste. 
The  Due  de  Saint-Simon  proposed  to  resign  his 
commission,  and  surely  so  vast  a  decision  could  not 
be    easily    framed.     With    all    his    own  incomparable 


132  SAINT-SIMON 

sense  of  dignity,  he  appointed  a  board  of  reference 
(so  to  say),  which,  consisting  of  three  marshals 
and  three  eminent  courtiers,  was  capable  of  passing 
an  honourable  sentence.  With  no  dissentient  voice 
they  agreed  that  Saint-Simon  should  leave  the  service, 
which  had  failed  to  treat  him  with  becoming  respect. 
A  duke  and  peer,  well  established  in  the  world, 
as  was  Saint-Simon,  could  not  condescend  to  serve 
like  a  common  runaway,  and  to  see  a  riff-raff 
mob  put  over  his  head.  Wherefore,  said  his  friends, 
he  owed  to  his  order  an  instant  resignation.  Still  he 
wavered  :  fat  besoin,  says  he,  de  ma  colere  et  de  men 
depit,  qualities  which  never  failed  him,  and  he  realised 
with  regret  that  the  King's  fury  was  inevitable. 

At  length,  however,  the  letter  was  written,  which 
ascribed  his  resignation  to  ill-health,  and  a  multitude 
of  friends  was  set  to  discover  the  attitude  of  the  King. 
Louis,  who  was  never  so  magnificent  as  when  he 
accepted  a  blow  attracted  by  his  own  imprudence, 
spoke  of  it  but  once.  Eh,  bien,  monsieur,  said  he 
to  Chamillart,  voila  encore  un  bomme  qui  nous  quitte. 
With  this  superb  reticence  there  was  no  argument, 
and  Saint-Simon  was  driven  to  a  false  position. 
Nor  did  the  King  pause  on  the  road  of  humilia- 
tion. He  overwhelmed  Saint-Simon  by  a  single  act 
of  politeness,  and  then  left  him  in  silence  for  two 
years.  Now,  the  King  possessed  before  all  men  the 
art  of  giving  importance  to  trifles,  and  he  was  wont  to 
show  his  esteem  by  permitting  a  favoured  courtier  to 
hold  his  candle  as  he  went  to  bed.     Only  those  of  the 


SAINT-SIMON  133 

highest  rank  were  chosen  to  perform  this  intimate 
service.  Ambassadors,  save  the  Papal  Nuncio,  were 
rarely  thus  flattered,  and  it  was  with  astonishment  that 
Saint-Simon,  purposely  retired  to  the  background, 
heard  his  name  pronounced  on  the  eve  of  his  retire- 
ment. But  he  held  the  candle,  and  henceforth 
endured  the  displeasure  of  the  King,  who  would 
neither  address  him  nor,  save  by  accident,  cast  even  a 
casual  glance  upon  him. 

Retired  from  the  army,  Saint-Simon  had  no  resource 
but  the  Court,  and  at  the  Court  he  was  received  with 
declared  chagrin.  The  King  no  longer  bade  him  to 
Marly,  and  even  at  Versailles  encountered  him  unwill- 
ingly. But  it  was  only  in  the  close  air  of  the  Court 
that  Saint-Simon  could  breathe,  and,  despite  his 
monarch's  displeasure,  he  did  not  begin  the  real  work 
of  his  life  until  he  had  laid  aside  his  captain's  uniform. 
Moreover,  by  degrees  the  King's  anger  abated  ;  and 
his  wife's  tact,  together  with  his  own  intrigue,  re- 
captured him  a  semblance  at  least  of  the  Royal  favour. 

Now,  Saint-Simon  was  born  into  the  world  an 
animated  peerage.  For  him  a  knowledge  of  ceremony 
and  precedence  was  the  essential  of  a  duke's  career, 
while  there  was  nobody  of  distinction  either  above  or 
below  his  own  rank.  The  throne  was  useful  as  the 
expression  of  the  ducal  power  ;  the  people  was  useful 
because  it  could  work  for  the  ducal  pleasure.  But  the 
one  and  the  other  were  but  complements,  and  the 
smallest  infraction  of  the  ducal  dignity  was  a  danger  to 
the  State.     To  preserve  this  dignity  in  its  becoming 


134  SAINT-STMON 

place  the  most  punctilious  diligence  was  necessary,  and 
Saint-Simon  worshipped  the  forms  of  ceremonial  life 
with  a  keener  devotion  than  Amadis  de  Gaul  brought 
to  the  cult  of  chivalry.  He  forgot  that  the  pomp  of 
the  Court  did  but  facilitate  the  progress  of  the  kingly 
chariot,  and  in  this  forgetfulness  he  esteemed  it  a 
separate  and  necessary  enterprise. 

So  in  his  eyes  the  Court  existed  for  pageantry's 
sake ;  so  in  the  enthusiasm  of  a  courtier  he  valued 
the  means  above  the  end.  With  all  sincerity  he 
believed  that  the  set  of  a  wig  or  the  colour  of 
a  hat  was  of  more  importance  than  policy  or  valour. 
When  Lauzun  persuaded  the  Marechal  de  Tesse 
to  appear  before  his  monarch  in  a  grey  hat,  Saint- 
Simon  is  no  less  indignant  at  the  outrage  than 
his  monarch.  The  folly  of  a  Master  of  the  Ceremonies 
who  permitted  a  debutante  to  kiss  the  Duchesse  de 
Bourgoyne's  cheek  aroused  a  fiercer  anger  in  his  breast 
than  Marlborough's  most  brilliant  victory.  The 
appointment  of  a  maid  of  honour  was  to  him  of  far 
higher  interest  than  the  generalship  of  a  campaign. 
But  it  were  foolish  and  unjust  to  reproach  Saint-Simon 
with  the  loyal  pursuit  of  his  duty.  Narrow  as  was  his 
ideal,  he  worshipped  it  with  a  fidelity  and  a  courage 
which  make  ridicule  unjust  and  contempt  impossible. 
He  discussed  the  one  burning  question  of  his  life, 
whether  he  should  or  should  not  leave  Court,  with  the 
same  contracted  persistence  which  Panurge  brought  to 
the  subject  of  marriage.  But  his  persistence  was 
honourable    and  wise.     At    Court  he    could    exercise 


SAINT-SIMON  135 

his  best  gifts,  his  most  brilliant  talents  ;  away  from  the 
Court  he  was  a  musician  deprived  of  his  instrument, 
a  knight  stripped  for  ever  of  the  accoutrements  of 
war. 

But  not  merely  did  he  cherish  a  lofty  ideal.  He 
was  born  into  the  world  with  a  perfect  knowledge  of 
his  art.  There  was  no  question  of  etiquette  or  pro- 
priety which  he  could  not  decide  at  a  first  hearing, 
and  so  faithfully  did  he  follow  his  conviction  that  he 
would  never  permit  an  infraction  of  the  law  he  knew 
so  well.  Hence  was  derived  much  of  his  inevitable 
unpopularity.  He  was  infallible,  and  the  world — even 
the  world  of  Louis  XIV. — hates  infallibility.  The 
traps  laid  to  foil  his  knowledge  were  innumerable,  and 
never  once  was  he  caught  by  the  jester.  On  the  day 
of  his  reception  by  Parliament  he  was  purposely  mis- 
informed as  to  his  costume.  But  the  greffier  wasted 
his  breath.  Saint-Simon  could  not  have  been  deceived 
even  in  his  cradle  by  the  most  accomplished  student  of 
etiquette.  Thus  he  lived  in  the  proud  consciousness 
of  infallibility — the  one  courtier  of  France,  from 
whom  no  detail  of  genealogy,  procedure,  or  precedent 
could  ever  be  concealed.  And  his  pride  is  pardonable 
for  its  splendid  sinceritv.  Some  there  are  who  devote 
themselves  to  sport  or  literature.  Others  can  quicken 
a  sluggish  interest  only  in  a  tumult  of  affairs.  Saint- 
Simon,  the  secret  of  his  Memoirs  being  kept,  posed 
before  the  world  for  a  touchstone  of  correctness.  Nor 
may  the  most  censorious  do  more  than  lift  his  hat  in 
the  presence  of  a  master,  and  acknowledge  that  in  one 


136  SAINT-SIMON 

corner  of  human   intelligence   Saint-Simon  was,  and 
will  always  remain,  unrivalled. 

Of  course  his  superiority  procured  him  enemies,  and 
even  had  he  not  angered  the  King  by  his  early  retire- 
ment from  the  army  he  could  not  have  lived  on  terms  of 
constant  amity  with  le  Roi  Soleil.  While  his  knowledge 
and  independence  made  him  a  bad  subject,  he  was  incap- 
able of  the  flattery  which  could  alone  have  won  for  him 
the  esteem  of  his  Sovereign,  and  his  active  life  is  a  record 
or  quarrel  and  dispute.  He  stood,  the  personification 
of  ducal  rectitude  against  the  world.  And  ducal  recti- 
tude persuaded  him  to  hate  the  King,  Madame  de 
Maintenon  [cette  vielle  fee  he  calls  Her  Solidity),  and 
all  the  race  of  Royal  bastards.  In  truth,  there  was 
nothing  in  the  wide  world  that  he  hated  so  bitterly  as 
a  bastard,  and  if  his  heart  had  become  the  slate  of 
destiny,  there  is  no  doubt  what  word  would  have  been 
inscribed  thereon.  Thus  his  quarrel  with  the  King 
grew  apace,  and  a  hundred  attempts  at  reconciliation 
were  thwarted  by  the  intrigue  of  Madame  de  Main- 
tenon.  Yet  Saint-Simon  never  lost  courage  ;  again 
and  again  he  would  have  compelled  an  understanding 
by  a  personal  interview.  And  when  you  remember 
the  terrifying  eye  and  the  awful  majesty  of  the  Great 
King,  you  can  appreciate  the  intrepidity  of  this  inso- 
lent duke.  "Since  you  left  my  service,"  said  the  King, 
"you  think  of  nothing  but  studying  ranks  and  of 
bringing  actions  against  all  the  world.  If  I  were  wise, 
I  would  see  you  so  far  off  that  you  would  not  worry 
me  for  a  long  time." 


SAINT-SIMON  137 

But  Saint-Simon  stood  even  against  this  pitiless 
rebuke.  Rather  he  took  it  to  his  own  glory  that  he 
had  protected  the  rank  of  his  peers ;  he  raised  his 
voice  against  the  King's,  that  all  the  Court  might 
hear,  and  he  had  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  the 
King  felt  the  rectitude  of  his  argument.  For  a  while 
his  position  was  easier,  but  the  cabal  of  the  Lorraines 
and  the  bastards  would  not  grant  him  peace,  and 
every  year  he  is  found  appealing  to  the  King's  justice. 
And  the  King  each  time  resents  the  duke's  "attach- 
ment to  his  dignity,"  and  each  time  grants  him  a 
reluctant  reconciliation.  "  It  is  your  own  fault,"  he 
said  on  another  occasion,  "you  talk  and  you  blame, 
and  that  is  the  reason  why  all  the  world  speaks  against 
you.  If  you  had  never  occupied  yourself  with  rank, 
there  would  have  been  nothing  to  say." 

But  Saint-Simon  did  occupy  himself  with  rank,  and 
he  would  have  sacrificed  the  King's  favour  to  his 
never-failing  sense  of  duty.  However,  the  service 
which  he  rendered  to  the  realm  by  separating  the  Due 
d'Orlcans  from  Madame  d'Argenton  helped  to  make  a 
final  peace,  and  Saint-Simon  returned  to  Court  with 
all  the  air  of  an  injured  hero.  Yet  he  did  not 
attribute  the  glory  of  his  return  to  his  own  tact. 
His  generosity  gave  the  credit,  where  it  was  due, 
to  his  wife,  whose  popularity  had  never  been  dimmed 
even  by  her  husband's  petulance.  "  What  a  treasure," 
he  exclaims,  "is  a  sensible  and  virtuous  wife  !  "  But 
his  restoration  to  Court  abated  his  hostility  to  the 
bastards  not  a  whit.     Asked  to  accept  the  friendship 


138  SAINT-SIMON 

of  M.  du  Maine,  he  was  virtuously  indignant.  "  Never 
will  I  shake  their  hand,"  he  replied  with  fervour  ;  "  I 
hate  them,  and  I  hate  their  rank." 

Even  when  the  sons  of  M.  du  Maine  received 
the  crowning  honour  of  their  father's  rank,  he  offered 
the  necessary  congratulations  with  a  breaking  heart. 
"This  scene,"  he  confesses,  "was  the  most  novel 
and  singular  of  the  whole  reign  for  those  who  knew 
the  King  and  his  intoxication  of  omnipotence.  Enter- 
ing his  cabinet  at  Versailles,  and  the  order  given  as 
usual,  he  advanced  gravely  into  his  second  cabinet, 
and  placed  himself  near  his  arm-chair  without  sitting 
down,  slowly  passed  his  eyes  over  the  whole  company, 
and,  without  addressing  any  one,  declared  that  he 
gave  to  the  children  of  M.  du  Maine  the  same 
rank  and  the  same  honours  as  M.  du  Maine  himself 
possessed  ;  and  without  a  moment's  interval  he  marched 
to  the  furthest  end  of  the  cabinet,  calling  to  himself 
Monseigneur  and  the  Due  de  Bourgogne.  There, 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  this  proud  monarch, 
this  severe  and  masterful  father,  humiliated  himself 
before  his  son  and  his  grandson.  He  implored 
them,  as  they  were  both  to  reign  after  him,  to  grant 
the  rank  to  the  children  of  the  Due  du  Maine  which 
he  had  given  them,  and  to  pay  this  tribute  to  the 
tenderness  which  he  flattered  himself  they  felt  for  him, 
and  which  he  felt  both  for  the  father  and  the  children." 
Thus  the  King  drank  the  dregs  of  humiliation  to  the 
hushed  silence  of  his  son  and  grandson  ;  thus  Saint- 
Simon  enjoyed  the  secret  pleasure  of  his  Sovereign's 


SAINT-SIMON  139 

sole  discomfiture,  a  pleasure  tempered  by  the  sub- 
sequent compliment  extorted  from  his  ducal  majesty. 
But  his  hatred  knew  no  abatement,  and  even  when  he 
had  helped  to  compass  the  bastards'  ruin,  he  still  hardened 
this  heart  mercilessly  against  them. 

Meanwhile  he  had  won  the  friendship  of  the  Due 
d'Orleans,  a  friendship  which  contrived  his  solitary 
appearance  upon  the  active  stage  of  politics,  and  which 
gave  him  at  last  a  recognised  position.  His  influence 
over  this  self-indulgent  prince  is  as  undoubted  as  his 
fidelity,  and  a  fleeting  admiration  for  the  Due  de 
Bourgogne  did  not  break  the  bond  which  united 
Philip  and  the  courtier.  Doubtless,  had  the  Due  de 
Bourgogne  lived  to  succeed  his  grandfather,  Saint- 
Simon  would  have  become  famous  as  the  framer  of  a 
constitution.  For  his  confessed  hobby  was  politics, 
and,  had  he  possessed  the  power,  he  would  have 
reformed  the  whole  realm  of  France  to  suit  the 
legitimate  ambition  of  her  dukes.  But  the  Due  de 
Bourgogne  died,  and  France  was  allowed  to  drift  into 
the  Revolution  without  the  check  which  Saint-Simon 
might  have  set  upon  her  progress.  None  the  less,  the 
death  of  Louis  XIV.  gave  him  his  supreme  opportunity. 
With  his  aid  the  King's  testament  was  set  aside,  the 
bastards  at  last  suffered  a  merited  disgrace,  and  the 
Due  d'Orleans  was  proclaimed  Regent.  Such  was 
the  moment  of  Saint-Simon's  triumph.  For  this  he 
had  endured  the  ill-will  of  the  Great  King,  and 
tolerated  the  insolence  of  Madame  de  Maintenon  ;  for 
this  he  had  borne  the  impertinence  of  courtiers,  who 


Ho  SAINT-SIMON 

would  still  chaff  him  concerning  order  and  precedence. 
At  last  he  saw  the  illegitimate  children  of  his  King 
driven  into  obscurity,  and  was  content. 

It  was  a  brilliant  victory,  which  soon  put  him 
out  of  conceit  with  a  public  life.  He,  who  had 
the  right  to  ask  so  much,  asked  nothing ;  he 
refused  the  guardianship  of  the  infant  King,  and, 
doubtless  with  a  swift  recollection  of  that  embassy 
to  Rome  from  which  he  had  been  jockeyed  by 
Madame  de  Maintenon's  intrigue,  he  accepted  the 
one  serious  employment  of  his  life — a  mission  to 
Madrid.  There  he  acquitted  himself  with  the  tact 
and  intelligence  expected  of  an  accomplished  courtier, 
and  there  he  drew  that  series  of  vivid  pictures 
which  are  a  title  to  immortality.  But  with  his  embassy 
to  Madrid  his  public  life  was  finished.  The  death  of 
the  Regent  drove  him  from  the  Court,  and  henceforth 
he  devoted  himself  to  a  country  life  and  the  preparation 
of  his  renowned  Memoirs.  Moreover,  the  life  of  Paris 
had  no  longer  an  interest  for  him.  He  belonged  to 
the  ancient  France  of  Henry  IV.  and  Louis  XIII. 
The  brilliance  of  Louis  XIV.,  which  he  witnessed 
himself,  was  but  an  interlude,  and  he  had  little 
sympathy  with  the  age  of  reason  heralded  by  Voltaire 
and  Diderot. 

Indeed  his  hasty  references  to  Voltaire  are  sufficient 
to  demonstrate  the  spirit  of  intolerance  wherewith  he 
approached  the  newest  literature  of  his  age.  "  Arouet, 
the  son  of  a  notary  who  served  my  father  and  myself 
until  his  death,  was  exiled  and  sent  to  Tulle  for  a  set 


SAINT-SIMON  141 

of  verses  very  satirical  and  very  impudent.  I  would 
not  amuse  myself  by  recording  this  trifle  had  not  this 
same  Arouet,  now  grand  poet  and  Academician,  under 
the  name  of  Voltaire,  become,  in  consequence  of  many 
tragic  adventures,  a  kind  of  personage  in  the  republic 
of  letters,  and  even  a  kind  of  somebody  in  a  certain 
society."  Such  is  his  reference  to  Voltaire — twice 
made.  But  this  intolerance  did  not  proceed  from  a 
lack  of  literary  appreciation.  It  merely  meant  that  an 
aged  courtier  did  not  understand  the  wit  and  intelli- 
gence of  a  strange  world,  into  which  he  had  wandered 
by  the  accident  of  a  long  life.  Thus  he  tottered 
towards  the  grave  in  the  retirement  of  his  country 
seat,  so  little  mindful  of  his  former  dignity  that  (says 
rumour)  he  sat  without  his  wig  because  "his  head 
smoked."  But  those  Memoirs  were  already  written 
which  were  destined  to  make  his  character  and  genius 
a  part  of  the  world's  inheritance. 

His  character,  which  we  know  as  intimately  as  if  he 
had  sketched  it  in  a  page  of  his  own  mordant  prose, 
was  shaped  by  his  age.  Saint-Simon,  as  he  reveals 
himself,  could  only  have  flourished  at  the  Court  of 
Louis  XIV.  He  needed  an  atmosphere  of  sumptuous 
frivolity  for  the  proper  development  of  his  qualities  ; 
and  it  is  his  noblest  distinction  that  in  his  eyes  the 
prevailing  frivolity,  sumptuous  as  it  was,  always 
escaped  the  reproach  of  folly  and  irrelevance.  When 
the  King  died,  his  historian  has  scarce  a  word  to  say 
of  his  policy  or  prowess.  But  he  devotes  all  his 
eloquence  to  the  proper  description  of  the  Royal  up- 


142  SAINT-SIMON 

rising,  the  putting  on  of  the  Royal  boots,  the  Royal 
supper-table,  and  the  Royal  retirement  to  rest.  Even 
patriotism  is  merged  in  the  pious  observation  of  a 
courtly  manner,  and  you  feel  that  it  matters  not  a  jot 
that  M.  du  Maine  shows  the  white  feather  at  the  head 
of  the  army  so  long  as  the  Roi  Soleil  sinks  to  the  west 
in  august  magnificence.  A  single  custom  of  the 
Court  —  the  distinction  of  the  pour  —  gives  us  an 
insight  into  the  dominant  punctilio.  Over  the  apart- 
ment of  the  Princes  of  the  Blood,  the  Cardinals,  and 
foreign  Princes  was  written  pour  M.  un  Tel.  Over 
the  apartments  of  lesser  personages  stood  the  bald 
legend  M.  un  Tel,  and  this  simple  word  pour  was 
responsible  for  many  an  argument  and  much  ill- 
humour.  The  distinction  could  not  have  survived 
without  the  support  of  an  invincible  tradition,  and  the 
wisest  courtier  maybe  pardoned  if  he  saw  all  things  in 
a  whimsical  relation.  But  Saint-Simon  outstripped  the 
vainest  of  his  contemporaries.  For  him  nothing  was 
unimportant  that  had  its  sanction  in  the  habit  of  princes. 
Above  all,  he  was  a  man  of  principle.  For 
his  precedence  before  the  Due  de  Richelieu,  for  the 
exclusion  of  Capitaine  de  Rouvroy  from  his  family,  for 
the  proper  service  of  the  King's  Commission,  he 
would  willingly  have  sacrificed  his  life.  Never  once 
in  his  blameless  career  did  he  give  ground  on  the  field 
of  ceremony,  and  it  was  this  peculiar  sense  of  devotion 
that  made  him  the  best-hated  man  of  his  time.  The 
staunch  champion  of  his  order,  he  won  the  dislike  of 
high  and  low.     Madame    de  Maintenon   denounced 


SAINT-SIMON  143 

him  for  a  frondeur,  full  of  views.  Madame,  bolder 
than  the  rest,  turned  him  to  public  ridicule.  Once 
when  he  was  taking  his  seat  at  dinner  before  the 
Prince  de  Deux-Ponts,  she  said  aloud  :  "  How  is  it 
that  M.  de  Saint-Simon  presses  the  Prince  des  Deux- 
Ponts  so  close  ?  Would  he  beg  him  to  take  one  of 
his  sons  for  his  page  ?  "  D'Argenson,  more  violent 
still,  called  him  ce  petit  devot  sans  genie,  and  in  a 
fury  denounced  "his  odious,  unjust,  anthropophagous 
character."  But  Saint-Simon  was  indifferent  to 
censure.  The  best  hater  of  his  time,  he  paid  all  such 
insolence  with  contempt,  and  quickly  added  another 
portrait  to  his  incomparable  gallery. 

So  loyal  was  he  to  the  principle  of  his  life  that  vice 
was  as  remote  from  his  character  as  gaiety.  How 
should  he  be  gay  in  a  Court  devoted  to  pomp — a 
Court  which  found  its  solitary  relief  in  indelicate 
horseplay  ?  And  of  vice  he  was  intolerant  even  in 
others.  So  virtuous  was  he,  in  brief,  that  he  seems 
almost  too  good  ;  and  the  supreme  gravity  of  his 
demeanour,  his  perpetual  ambition  to  win  the  friend- 
ship of  older  men  than  himself,  might  have  involved 
him  in  the  reproach  of  priggishness.  But  his  talent 
saved  him  from  this  last  disgrace,  and  his  unfailing 
tact,  his  perfect  discretion,  forced  respect  even  from 
his  enemies.  He  was,  moreover,  a  gentleman  of 
perfect  courage,  who  never  feared  to  face  the  anger  of 
his  Sovereign,  and  so  vast  was  his  capacity  for  righteous 
indignation,  that  he  was  never  known  to  excuse  a 
friend  or  forgive  an  enemy. 


H4  SAINT-SIMON 

Yet  where  he  loved,  he  loved  with  a  loyal  generosity 
which  was  not  common  in  his  world  of  cynicism 
and  selfishness.  He  would  have  laid  down  his 
life  for  Beauvilliers  ;  he  clung  to  Chamillart,  even 
in  his  disgrace  ;  and  he  mourned  Ranee,  the  sincere 
admiration  of  his  youth,  with  a  simple  pathos, 
which  dignity  almost  withheld  from  expression.  More- 
over, his  honesty  was  beyond  question.  He  confesses 
that  he  has  a  horror  of  making  money  at  Court, 
and  with  all  his  opportunity  of  gain  he  lived  and 
died  with  hands  unsullied  by  avarice.  His  wisdom 
matched  his  virtue.  He  was  born  with  a  perfect 
knowledge  of  mankind.  At  nineteen  he  had  mastered 
all  the  mysteries  of  conduct  and  intrigue,  and  through- 
out his  career  he  never  made  a  mistake  through  lack  of 
foresight  or  intelligence. 

In  brief,  he  was  a  virtuous,  fantastic,  proud, 
intolerant,  lettered,  upright,  courageous,  cynical,  im- 
placable, pious  gentleman,  who  would  have  fought 
king  or  devil  in  defence  of  his  Church  or  his 
order.  Had  he  been  ever  placed  near  the  throne 
he  would  have  clipped  the  sovereign  power  for 
the  glory  of  the  dukes,  since,  with  all  his  contempt 
of  the  people,  he  was  in  a  sense  the  enemy  of 
the  Crown  ;  and  it  is  common  to  assert  that  his 
policy  of  ducal  aggrandisement  prepared  the  way  for 
the  downfall  of  kings  and  the  advent  of  democracy. 
Yet,  maybe,  he  was  prophet  enough  to  see  that 
the  power  of  the  great  families  might  stem  the 
tide  of   revolution    in    France,    as    in    England,    and 


SAINT-SIMON  145 

at  least  he  fought  the  battle  of  his  order  with  a 
constancy  none  the  less  admirable  for  its  conspicuous 
egoism. 

He  left  the  army  too  early  for  the  display  of  his 
skill,  and  the  death  of  the  Due  de  Bourgogne  took 
from  him  his  one  chance  of  political  experiment.     So 
that  he  lives  neither  as  soldier  nor  as  statesman.     But 
he  has  a  far  better  title  to  immortality  :  he  was  a  man 
of  genius.     Though  his  contemporaries  knew  it  not, 
he  was  preparing  an  ample  revenge  for  their  neglect 
and  antipathy.     In  brief,  he  was  writing  the  history 
of  himself  and   his   age,   as    no    man    ever    wrote    it 
before  or  since.     From  his  earliest  youth  he  had  been 
attached  to  the  study  of  Memoirs^  and  it  was   Bassom- 
pierre  whose  example  first  spurred  him  to  emulation. 
His  resolve  was  taken  at  Gaw-Boecklheim,  and  it  was 
to  solace  the  tedium  of  a  long  campaign  that  he  first 
sat  him  down  to  relate  whatever  was   memorable   in 
his  life.     With  characteristic  precocity,  he  began  the 
real  work  of  his  life  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  and  for 
thirty  years  there  is  scarce  a  day  without  its  record. 

The  result  is  a  piece  of  history  and  biography  unex- 
ampled in  the  world's  literature.  It  is  impossible 
adequately  to  praise  this  vast  canvas  with  its  crowd  of 
figures,  each  one  outlined  by  the  firm  hand  of  a 
master.  Saint-Simon  was  not  a  mere  autobiographer. 
He  was  determined  to  give  the  world  something  else 
than  the  revelation  of  a  personage,  and  so  he  painted 
the  grandiose  Court  of  Louis  XIV.  with  all  its  splen- 
dour and  all  its  vanity.     He  has  spared  nobody,  least 

K 


146  SAINT-SIMON 

of  all  himself ;  he  has  displayed  his  hatreds  and  con- 
tempts in  the  most  vivid  colours,  and  as  he  hated  like 
a  strong  man  his  picture  is  never  in  monotone  ;  but, 
on  the  other  hand,  he  has  sketched,  not  always  with  a 
light  hand,  his  own  follies  and  foibles,  and  though  he 
bitterly  resented  the  reproof  of  others,  it  is  plain  that 
he  kept  an  open  eye  upon  his  passion  for  rank  and 
dignity.  In  brief,  he  will  always  remain  the  most 
candid  historian  of  his  epoch,  and  no  other  epoch  has 
ever  found  so  brilliant  a  commentator.  His  grasp  of 
detail  is  miraculous ;  nothing  escapes  his  all-seeing 
eye  ;  and  he  seems  to  have  understood  the  motives  as 
well  as  the  actions  of  men. 

He  worked,  he  said  in  a  letter  to  Ranee,  only  for 
himself,  for  a  few  of  his  friends  during  his  life,  and  for 
whomsoever  would  after  his  death,  so  that  he  deter- 
mined to  spare  nobody  on  any  consideration  whatever. 
He  believed  that  his  struggle  against  the  pretension  of 
M.  de  Luxembourg  would  be  the  bitterest  chapter  in 
his  book  ;  but  he  had  not  then  felt  the  whole  strength 
of  his  reproof,  and  he  assuredly  surpassed  his  earliest 
invective    in    vigour    and    magnificence.       Before    all 
things  he  claims  in  his  epilogue  the  merit  of  truth. 
The  love  of  truth,  he  avows,   has  ruined  his  career, 
and  he  claims  to  pursue  it  with  doubled  ardour  in  his 
Memoirs.     On  the  score  of  impartiality  he  is  far  less 
arrogant.     u  The  Stoic,"  says  he,  "  is  a  fine  and  noble 
chimera."     Wherefore  he  does  not  boast  an  impartial 
temper.     "  I  should  do  it  in  vain,"  he  confesses  with 
excellent  sense,  and  when  this  fierce  contemner  of  his 


SAINT-SIMON  147 

fellows  is  moved  by  prejudice  or  drawn  by  admiration, 
he  tells  you  his  predilection.  Even  when  he  has 
thrown  his  affection  into  one  scale,  he  levels  the 
balance  by  weighting  the  other  with  his  conspicuous 
honesty. 

He  has  achieved  the  greatest  triumph  of  the  writer  : 
he  has  produced  a  true  and  large  effect  by  a  multipli- 
city of  details.  But  the  details  never  disturb  a  pro- 
longed contemplation,  because  they  are  kept  most 
scrupulously  in  their  place.  His  method  was  rather 
that  of  the  historian  than  of  the  biographer.  He  does 
not,  after  the  fashion  of  Pepys,  attempt  to  render  the 
sights  and  sounds  of  the  day.  Where  vision  is 
defective,  he  supplements  it  by  inquiry  and  imagina- 
tion. Nor  does  he  attempt  to  render  the  gradual 
development  of  his  character  and  inclination.  A 
serious  historian  set  down  to  the  deliberate  production 
of  a  masterpiece,  he  has  given  to  his  work  a  consistent 
and  homogeneous  quality.  His  notes  were  taken  day 
by  day,  but  the  finished  work  was  produced  after  the 
stress  of  long  study  and  consideration.  So  sternly 
does  he  eliminate  what  he  thought  trivial  that  he  tells 
you  nothing  of  those  intimacies  which  delight  you  in 
the  page  of  Bassompierre.  You  never  hear  how  he 
was  troubled  to  procure  a  coat  or  to  woo  a  lady.  On 
the  other  hand,  you  watch  the  great  panorama  of 
empire  as  it  unrolls  itself  with  splendour  and  ceremony. 
The  amplitude  of  the  impression  never  contracts. 
You  are  face  to  face  with  the  majeste  effrayante  of  the 
Great   King;  you  shudder  at  the  "false  prudery"  of 


H«  SAINT-SIMON 

Madame  de  Maintenon  ;  you  share  the  author's  dis- 
gust at  the  intolerable  viciousness  of  M.  de  Vendome  ; 
and  all  the  while  you  appreciate  the  perfect  conscience, 
the  inspired  intuition  of  the  man,  who  saw  even  that 
which  was  closest  to  him. 

His  own  pride  was  that  his  Memoirs  were  first  hand, 
and  de  source ;  and  his  pride  was  justified.  As  to  their 
reception  he  was  indifferent.  "  It  matters  nothing  to 
me,"  he  wrote  ;  "  I  shall  see  nothing  of  it" — but  he 
anticipated  an  outburst  of  indignation,  and  it  was  only 
their  tardy  appearance  which  saved  their  author  from 
an  idle  expression  of  rage.  They  came  so  late  into 
the  world  that  they  could  be  viewed  dispassionately  as 
a  work  of  art.  And  even  as  a  work  of  art  they  were 
misunderstood.  Madame  du  Deffand,  who  first  ad- 
mired them,  deplores  their  style  (in  a  letter  to 
Walpole),  and,  though  amused  by  their  anecdote,  she 
condemns  their  portraiture.  Yet,  after  the  perfection 
of  their  portraiture,  it  is  the  style  which  keeps  the 
Memoirs  of  Saint-Simon  ever  fresh.  For  Saint-Simon 
was  a  master  of  French  apart  and  by  himself;  he 
derives  from  none  ;  and  when  the  complete  work  saw 
the  light  in  1829  the  condemnation  of  Madame  du 
Deffand  was  instantly  reversed. 

His  style,  vigorous,  involved,  and  inflected  as  it  is, 
varies  with  the  occasion,  and  is  everything  save 
pedantic.  The  conversations  keep  the  very  impress 
of  the  speaking  characters ;  the  narrative  pauses  or 
quickens  with  the  necessity  of  quietude  or  speed. 
But  the  phrase  is  always  personal,  and  though  Saint- 


SAINT-SIMON  149 

Simon  was  a  purist  in  life,  most  assuredly  he  was 
never  a  purist  in  speech.  He  sprinkles  his  colour 
with  a  free  hand,  and  throws  into  his  phrase  a  vigour 
that  is  all  his  own.  He  wrote  French  with  some- 
thing of  the  fulness  and  variety  which  the  great 
Elizabethans  imposed  upon  English.  The  style  was 
licentious  perhaps,  but  how  supple,  diverse,  colloquial, 
stately,  and  impressive  !  To  the  eighteenth  century, 
accustomed  to  a  timid  accuracy,  his  style  might  well 
seem  an  outrage.  But  for  us,  who  know  that  a  strict 
adherence  to  a  set  of  wiredrawn  rules  is  not  the  fir?t 
duty  of  art,  the  style  of  Saint-Simon  has  an  abounding 
life  and  a  vivid  energy. 

To  its  shortcomings  none  was  more  alive  than  him- 
self. He  recognised  his  negligence,  his  vain  repetitions 
of  the  same  words,  his  too  lavish  use  of  multiplied 
synonyms,  his  constant  obscurity,  now  born  of  repeti- 
tion, now  of  long  and  tortuous  sentences.  He  felt  his 
defects,  but  could  not  correct  them.  Always  carried 
away  by  the  subject,  he  was  too  little  attentive,  he 
confesses,  to  the  method  of  expression.  But,  says  this 
most  punctilious  of  courtiers,  with  an  irresistible  irony, 
u  I  never  was  an  Academic  subject,  and  I  could  never 
cure  myself  of  writing  rapidly."  His  only  thought 
was  of  truth  and  exactitude,  and  he  made  bold  to 
declare  that  these  were  the  soul  and  law  of  his  Memoirs, 
meanwhile  asking  a  benign  indulgence  for  their 
style.  But  the  style,  which  needs  no  indulgence, 
is  still  an  influence.  The  lofty  intelligence,  which 
took    in    at    a    glance    the    grandeur    of    the    Great 


150  SAINT-SIMON 

King  and  his  Court,  did  not  shrink  from  expres- 
sing itself  in  a  separate  and  individual  language,  while 
the  gallery  of  portraits,  which  Madame  du  Demand 
condemned,  is  unique  in  the  literary  experience  of  the 
world 


SAINT-SIMON 
[I 


SAINT-SIMON 

II. — His  Gallery. 

WHEN  M.  de  la  Trappe  declined  to  sit  for  his 
portrait,  Saint-Simon  introduced  Rigault  by 
stealth,  that  the  painter  might  make  the  necessary 
notes  of  his  unconscious  victim  ;  and  for  thirty  years 
this  cunning  courtier  himself  pursued  a  similar  policy. 
No  man  passed  before  his  eyes  unnoticed :  a  line 
jotted  down  here,  a  feature  recorded  there,  ensured 
that  a  perfect  presentment  should  be  transmitted  to 
posterity.  His  contemporaries,  in  perfect  ignorance 
of  their  doom,  met  his  cold,  seeing  eye  without  a 
tremor  ;  nor  did  they  know,  when  they  encountered 
the  obdurate  Saint-Simon  in  the  King's  cabinet,  that 
their  characteristics  were  pitilessly  marked  and  treasured 
for  the  note-book.  But  he  spared  the  world  as  little 
as  he  respected  it,  and  kept  the  secret  inviolate  until 
his  gallery  was  complete. 

He  was  born  with  the  genius  of  portraiture,  and  he 
is  still  without  a  rival  in  the  delicate  art  of  bringing 
back  the  bodily,  or  rather  the  moral,  presence  of  the 
dead.     To  read  his  book  is  to  wander  in  a  vast  gallery 


154  SAINT-SIMON 

hung  with  unnumbered  portraits  of  scheming  courtiers 
and  intriguing  ladies,  of*  valiant  captains  and  well- 
skilled  diplomatists.  His  style  he  varies  at  will :  now 
he  paints  with  an  ample  brush  upon  a  vast  canvas  ; 
now  he  suggests  a  figure  in  half  a  dozen  strokes  ;  or, 
again,  he  bites  a  mordant  outline  as  upon  copper.  By 
habit  serious,  he  does  not  disdain  caricature,  and  he 
can  twist  the  features  of  his  model  when  an  inherent 
grotesquery  suggests  the  perversion.  While  he  was 
happy  in  his  art,  he  was  fortunate  also  in  his  sitters. 
His  was  an  Augustan  age,  as  he  proudly  confesses  ;  and 
there  was  no  distinguished  contemporary  with  whose 
aspect  and  character  he  was  not  familiar.  Yet  he  laid 
certain  restrictions  upon  himself.  He  would  paint 
none  whose  qualities  or  pursuits  were  beyond  his 
sympathy.  Admirable  writer  though  he  was,  he 
approached  literature  with  a  certain  diffidence.  He 
who  had  every  opportunity  of  observing  Racine, 
sketches  him  merely  as  the  man  who  in  Madame  de 
Maintenon's  presence  attributed  the  collapse  of  comedy 
to  the  revival  of  such  poor,  foolish  pieces  as  Scarron's. 
But  no  courtier  escaped  his  rapid  vision  ;  and  he  has 
left  us  a  picture,  unsurpassed  and  unsurpassable,  of  all 
those  who  gossiped  in  the  secluded  defiles  of  Marly  or 
took  their  pleasure  in  the  cool  glades  of  Fontaine- 
bleau. 

In  one  other  direction  his  talent  was  severely  limited. 
He  painted  always  without  accessories.  His  figures 
stand  out  bare  and  bold  upon  his  canvas  ;  but  they 
have  no  proper  background,  nor  are  their  qualities  and 


SAINT-SIMON  155 

occupations  ever  explained  by  the  accompaniment  ot 
inanimate  details.     He  will  not  symbolise  a  huntsman 
by  a  hound  or  a  surgeon   by  a  scalpel.     Though  he 
was    a    perfect    clairvoyant    of  character,    though    he 
looked  right  into  the  heart  and   brain  of  man,  he  was 
deaf  to  the  sounds  and  blind  to  the  sights  of  existence. 
His  Icings  and  nobles  might  have  lived  in  vacancy  and 
clothed  themselves  in  rags.    Versailles  might  have  been 
a  barn  stripped  of  furniture  and  beggared  of  elegance. 
Life,  it  is  true,  was  his   material :   life  as   it  is  lived 
amid     the    intrigue    and    etiquette    of    Courts ;    but 
it  is  the  life  of  the   mind,   not  of  the    body,  which 
engrosses  him,  and  into  the  mind  of  man  he  looked  as 
an  astronomer  gazes  at  the  stars.     Always  sensitive  to 
an  encounter  of  wits  or  an  interchange  of  incivilities, 
he  ignores  the  environment  of  cultured  society.     Fine 
houses,  noble  furniture,  dainty  ornaments — all  things 
that  give  an  outward  splendour  to  the  pomp  and  dignity 
of  Courts — never  touch  him  to  eloquence.     Maybe,  he 
took  it  for  granted  that  dukes  and   gentlemen,   who 
alone    were    of    consequence    in     the    world,    should 
surround  themselves  with  whatever  was  grandiose  and 
decorative.     But,  none  the  less,  he  pleads  guilty  to  a 
strange   insensitiveness,  since   a   sincere  admiration  of 
life's  adornments  would  have  expressed   itself  in  spite 
of  his  theories. 

With  a  similar  obstinacy,  he  professes  no  interest 
in  clothes.  Himself  a  beau,  he  pictured  the  beaux 
of  his  time,  yet  always  with  so  profound  a  disregard 
of  their    aspect    that     not    one    of  them    need    have 


156  SAINT-SIMON 

been  at  the  pains  to  dress.  When  the  colour  ot 
a  general's  hat  appears  a  breach  of  etiquette  to  the 
King,  Saint-Simon  is  quick  to  note  the  outrage  ;  but 
this  vigilance  proceeds  not  from  an  interest  in  the 
fripperies  of  life,  but  from  a  devotion  to  the  strict, 
unwritten  code  of  courtliness.  So  far  his  portraits 
catch  a  glint  of  his  own  personality.  With  all  his 
passion  for  what  was  actual  and  vivid  —  he  was, 
indeed,  a  god  among  society  journalists  writing  for 
posterity — he  pictured  his  models  as  so  many  collec- 
tions of  intellectual  qualities  or  defects  ;  and  he  bent 
his  intelligence  to  consider  the  triviality  of  serious 
minds,  until  at  times  he  appears  nonchalant  or  in- 
human. You  acknowledge  the  truth  of  his  presenta- 
tion ;  yet,  now  and  again  you  sigh  for  the  breath  of 
frivolity  which  might  inspire  with  gaiety  those  strange 
processes  of  demeanour  which  to  the  courtier  are  the 
most  poignant  anxiety,  and  to  the  democrat  an  occasion 
of  easy  ridicule. 

None  the  less,  this  insensibility  to  physical  impres- 
sions heightens  his  few  passages  of  description.  Thus 
he  sketches  a  review  whereat  the  King,  according  to 
his  wont,  follows  the  carriage  of  Madame  de  Main- 
tenon  with  a  blind  devotion.  The  Royal  eyes  are 
all  for  "  the  old  witch,"  the  Royal  tongue  is  more 
eager  to  explain  than  to  command.  Her  Solidity, 
ever  anxious  for  adulation,  still  respects  herself  so 
far  as  to  keep  the  window  of  her  carriage  shut. 
Yet,  the  window  falls  as  the  Royal  hat  is  doffed,  and 
this  process,  indefinitely  repeated,  impresses  upon  us 


SAINT-SIMON  157 

the  carriage  and  its  window,  concerning  whose  exist- 
ence scepticism  might  otherwise  have  been  justified. 

But  elsewhere  his  "  world  "  is  never  "visible."  A 
crowd  of  courtiers,  dressed  you  know  not  how,  wanders 
about  in  a  palace  built  of  you  know  not  what  ;  but 
each  man  or  woman  of  the  crowd  is  quick  with  intelli- 
gence or  alive  with  vice.  The  intellectual  portraits, 
at  least,  are  drawn  with  a  sure  hand,  though  the  artist 
shirks  the  method  of  the  great  masters.  Velasquez 
gave  Philip  his  gun  or  set  him  down  to  his  devotions  ; 
Rembrandt  surrounded  his  Doctor  with  colleagues,  or 
showed  the  youthful  Burgomaster  a  connoisseur  by  a 
statuette  held  daintily  in  his  hand.  Vandyke  could 
not  imagine  his  most  dignified  patron  apart  from 
the  clothes  imposed  by  an  extravagant  fashion.  But 
Saint-Simon  closes  his  eyes  to  all  accessories  ;  sterner 
even  than  Holbein,  he  suppresses  backgrounds,  and 
puts  a  bare  intelligence  upon  his  paper. 

At  the  head  of  his  gallery  hang  two  portraits, 
elaborate  to  the  last  detail,  yet  broad  in  the  simplicity 
of  a  general  aspect:  Louis  XIV.  and  his  consort 
Madame  de  Maintenon.  Upon  their  portraiture  he 
has  exhausted  the  utmost  resources  of  his  art.  Scarce 
a  day  passes  but  he  adds  a  touch  or  heightens  a  tint  ; 
and,  since  he  is  disturbed  neither  by  loyalty  nor  by 
affection,  his  presentment  is  brutal  in  its  sincerity. 
He  at  least  is  determined  to  show  the  Great  King 
without  his  wig,  to  display  to  the  world  le  Roi 
Soldi  with  his  beams  dimmed  to  insignificance.  And 
the  picture,  coloured  by  his  own   malevolence,  is  not 


i58  SAINT-SIMON 

pleasant  to  contemplate.  A  small  man,  shrunk  in 
body  and  withered  in  mind,  the  keynote  of  whose 
character  is  mediocrity,  most  carefully  cherished — 
that  is  the  Sovereign  of  the  World.  A  coward 
abroad,  a  busybody  at  home,  he  is  yet  determined  to 
be  "great";  and  if  he  cannot  achieve  his  end  he 
must  persuade  himself  of  his  grandeur  and  hire  others 
to  say  that  they  believe  him.  Therefore  the  first 
necessity  of  his  life  is  to  surround  himself  with 
bastards  and  sycophants.  He  hates  nothing  more 
bitterly  than  noble  birth,  save  sprightly  intelligence. 
He  asks  at  his  Court  neither  character  nor  wit. 
Praise  he  must  have  at  any  cost;  and  though  he 
understands  no  music,  and  was  never  endowed  with  a 
voice,  he  will  sing  his  foolish  songs  night  after  night 
that  he  may  exult  in  hired  applause.  Though  innocent 
of  taste,  he  must  build  and  build  and  build  to  prove 
his  magnificence,  and  he  must  hire  architects  who 
dare  all  things  save  to  do  their  duty  and  to  speak  the 
truth. 

In  war  a  poltroon  and  a  novice,  he  must  yet 
see  his  armies  ever  in  the  field,  as  though  to  assure 
himself  of  his  own  valiance,  while  his  timid  ambition 
drives  him  so  far  that  he  listens  contentedly  to  the 
casual  ridicule  of  his  own  exploits,  if  only  his  consort 
and  her  toadies  esteem  him  a  model  of  courage. 
Thus  his  historian,  in  cold  blood,  dubs  him  a  king  of 
reviews,  holding  his  cheap  bravery  up  to  eternal 
ridicule.  In  brief,  says  Saint-Simon,  he  was  fit  only 
for  display,  and  yet  was  aghast  at  his  own  extravagance. 


SAINT-SIMON  159 

Overtaken  by  remorse,  he  urged  the  Dauphin  to 
avoid  a  worthless  example.  "  My  child,"  said  he  on 
his  death-bed,  "  you  are  going  to  be  a  great  king  ;  do 
not  emulate  the  taste  which  I  have  had  for  buildings, 
nor  the  taste  which  I  have  had  for  war  ;  try,  on  the 
contrary,  to  live  in  peace  with  your  neighbours. 
Render  to  God  that  which  you  owe  Him,  recognise 
your  obligations  to  Him,  and  compel  your  subjects  to 
do  Him  honour.  Follow  always  good  counsels  ;  try 
to  solace  your  people,  that  which  I  have  been  miser- 
able enough  not  to  have  done."  That  is  a  cry  from  a 
disappointed  heart,  and  Saint-Simon  echoes  it  cheer- 
fully, that  the  right  touch  be  not  lacking  to  his 
portrait. 

Thereafter  he  proceeds  to  prove  that  all  the 
King's  actions  derived  from  a  petty  spirit  of  jealousy. 
Louis,  in  fact,  was  determined  to  govern  for  himself, 
yet  had  not  the  wit.  But  his  lack  of  spirit  checked 
not  his  ambition.  He  was  merely  driven  into  an 
insane  hatred  of  those  better  gifted  than  himself. 
Thus  circumscribed,  he  reigned  perforce  on  a  small 
scale  :  he  could  never  attain  to  a  large  effect,  and  even 
in  the  petty  corners  of  his  wilful  indiscretion  he  was 
more  often  than  not  over-persuaded.  However,  with 
good  guidance  he  might,  perhaps,  have  come  to  success. 
For  his  impoverished  intelligence  was  capable  of  dis- 
cipline. He  loved  glory,  and  order,  and  good  govern- 
ment. He  was  born  prudent,  moderate,  secret, 
master  of  himself  and  of  his  speech.  He  was  even 
born — though  this  is  incredible — honest  and  just,  and 


160  SAINT-SIMON 

God  had  given  him  enough  qualities  to  be  a  good  and 
even  a  passably  great  King.  But  his  early  education 
was  so  monstrously  neglected  that  none  dared  ap- 
proach his  apartment ;  and  all  the  bitterness,  which 
he  professed  unto  the  end  for  these  early  days,  could 
not  atone  for  the  indignity  of  the  neglect.  In 
revenge,  his  natural  pride  was  so  vast  that,  had  it  not 
been  for  the  fear  of  the  devil  which  God  had  im- 
planted in  him,  he  would  have  had  himself  worshipped, 
nor  would  there  have  been  any  difficulty  in  finding 
adorers.  So  fantastic,  indeed,  was  his  vanity  that  he 
took  pleasure  in  the  ridiculous  monuments  set  up  to 
his  honour  ;  he  smiled  with  approval  at  the  pagan 
statue  of  the  Place  des  Victoires  ;  and  he  contemplated 
every  stupidity  with  a  serene  arrogance  which  made 
his  folly  almost  heroic. 

Thus  it  was  that  he  hated  the  Dukes,  the  only 
loyal  supporters  of  France.  Thus  it  was  that  he 
made  way  for  the  supremacy  of  the  people  by  his  ill- 
considered  tyranny.  But,  in  private  as  in  public,  he 
lived  a  miserable,  even  a  squalid,  life,  which  not  even 
the  reckless  magnificence  of  the  Court  was  enough 
to  palliate.  His  love  affairs  were  the  open  scandal  of 
Europe  ;  and,  when  at  last  he  had  sown  his  wild  oats, 
it  was  but  to  reap  them  in  the  hard,  chaste  bosom  of 
Madame  de  Maintenon  !  So,  says  his  biographer,  he 
lived  dishonoured  by  all  save  worthless  women  and 
unscrupulous  bastards.  His  sentiment  of  paternity 
spent  itself  upon  an  unrequited  love  for  the  abandoned 
children  of  long-forgotten  mistresses.     Truly  as  dismal 


SAINT-SIMON  161 

a  picture  as  history  has  to  show !  Yet  even  Saint- 
Simon  would  soften  the  harsh  effect.  Two  conspicu- 
ous virtues  the  Great  King  retained  until  his  death — 
the  virtues  of  majesty  and  grace:  virtues  so  foreign  to 
his  nature  that  he  had  acquired  them  by  a  painful  and 
a  constant  effort.  But  his  majesty,  acquired  as  it 
was,  was  still  ejfrayante,  and  it  was  not  merely  the 
dignity  of  his  position  which  inspired  him  with  the 
power  to  strike  terror  into  others.  Doubtless  the 
habit  of  years  and  the  weight  of  uncontrolled  authority 
are  strong  enough  to  bear  down  the  heaviest  anti- 
pathy; yet  there  have  been  many  bad  and  foolish  kings 
since  the  world  began,  and  there  has  been  but  one 
whose  majesty  was  proclaimed  a  terror  by  his  bitterest 
antagonist.  Wherefore  we  must  view  the  portrait  of 
Saint-Simon  through  coloured  spectacles,  and  attribute 
the  violent  colours  to  the  outraged  sense  of  a  dis- 
placed,  dishonoured  Duke. 

The  companion  portrait — of  the  half-royal  consort 
— is  yet  more  ignoble.  In  Saint-Simon's  eyes  Madame 
de  Maintenon  was  wholly  black,  without  one  single 
touch  of  amiable  light  or  dainty  colour  to  relieve  the 
indistinguishable  opacity.  An  adventuress,  who  first 
appeared  before  the  world  as  the  wife  of  a  cul-de-jatte^ 
she  cheerfully  endured  the  direst  insults,  the  most 
equivocal  positions,  to  arrive  at  the  empire  of  the 
world.  The  governess  of  the  Royal  bastards,  whose 
mother  she  easily  and  remorselessly  supplanted,  she 
won  her  place  by  no  charm  of  person,  by  no  elegance 
of  manner.     The  King,  who  set  out  to  hate  her,  was 

L 


i6a  SAINT-SIMON 

seduced  by  the  intelligence  of  her  letters,  presently 
submitted  to  her  faculty  of  intrigue,  installed  her  at 
his  side,  made  her  his  secret  wife,  and  finally  placed 
the  governance  of  France  in  her  adroit,  unscrupulous 
hands. 

A  false  prude,  she  upheld  a  morality  to  which 
she  was  a  perfect  stranger,  yet  worshipped  the 
idea  of  bastardy  because  she  knew  the  way  to  the 
Royal  heart.  After  the  manner  of  abandoned  women, 
who  scrub  churches  to  atone  for  the  forgotten  past, 
she  devoted  herself  with  the  air  of  a  Sainte-Nitouche 
to  the  glory  of  religion.  She  built  convents;  she 
patronised  ancient  foundations  ;  she  devoted  her  rullest 
ingenuity  to  ecclesiastical  intrigue.  By  dint  of  a 
vain  cunning  she  contrived  to  hold  herself  a  kind  of 
universal  abbess,  and  she  undertook  the  details  of  all 
the  dioceses.  For,  like  Louis  himself,  she  possessed  a 
talent  so  closely  wedded  to  detail  that  it  could  not 
compass  a  general  effect.  Thus,  the  ambitions  of 
bishops  were  her  most  engaging  interest,  and  she  ended 
in  believing  herself  the  mother  of  the  Church. 

Meanwhile  she  passed  through  every  degradation  to 
the  throne  of  honour.  Her  apartments  were  almost 
next  to  the  King's,  and  the  country  was  governed 
from  the  privacy  of  her  salon.  The  Minister  who 
would  have  his  way  might  leave  the  King  severely 
alone,  so  long  as  he  gained  the  ear  of  this  ancient 
intriguer.  Her  own  meanness  was  matched  only  by 
the  Royal  subservience.  Unattractive,  intolerable  as 
she  was,  she  received  the  adoration  of  a  King,  who 


SAINT-SIMON  163 

never  addressed  her  without  uncovering,  and  only 
replaced  his  hat  when  she  had  vouchsafed  an  answer. 
Her  one  merit — and  that  wholly  unsympathetic — was 
to  enhance  rather  than  to  decrease  her  age,  lest  her 
hold  over  the  King  should  be  established  upon  the 
quicksand  of  vanity  rather  than  upon  the  solid  rock  of 
interest.  She  undertook  no  enterprise  that  was  not 
disgraceful,  she  gave  no  advice  that  was  not  disastrous; 
yet  she  ruled  France  without  sentiment,  without 
affection,  during  the  lifetime  of  the  King,  whose  last 
days  she  rendered  miserable  by  neglect,  and  whose 
death  was  too  long  lingered  for  her  august  endurance. 
The  King,  with  the  lovesick  enthusiasm  of  an  old 
man,  prayed  that  God  might  be  pleased  ere  long  to 
take  his  consort  too ;  but  she,  who  had  been  more  than 
Queen,  desired  also  to  be  immortal,  and  so  bitterly 
resented  his  pious  wish  that  she  retired  in  dudgeon  to 
St.  Cyr. 

So  Saint-Simon  sums  up  her  achievements:  "Success, 
entire  confidence,  rare  dependence,  omnipotence,  public 
and  universal  adoration,  the  whole  world  at  her  feet 
— Ministers,  Generals,  the  Royal  Family;  all  good 
and  well  by  her,  all  at  fault  without  her  ;  men, 
affairs,  things ;  elections,  justice,  pardons,  religion, 
all,  without  exception,  in  her  hand  ;  the  King 
and  the  State  her  victims  ;  such  was  this  incredible 
witch,  and  thus  she  governed  without  a  break, 
without  an  obstacle,  without  the  slightest  cloud 
for  more  than  thirty  years,  the  incomparable  spectacle 
of  all  Europe  !  "     But  at  least  she  was  incomparable 


164  SAINT-SIMON 

for  all  her  baseness  and  self-seeking,  and  Saint-Simon, 
had  not  policy  and  tradition  blinded  his  judgment, 
might,  one  thinks,  have  taken  a  more  cynically 
favourable  view  of  her  achievement. 

These  are  the  two  masterpieces  of  the  portrait- 
painter — masterpieces  which  engrossed  the  whole  of 
his  life  and  talent.  Yet  they  are  but  two  among 
many  hundreds,  and,  though  elaborated  with  a  devo- 
tion and  an  energy  which  are  not  elsewhere  revealed, 
they  are  a  mere  corner  in  Saint-Simon's  claim  to 
immortality.  For  this  incomparable  draughtsman  had 
many  methods  of  work,  and  more  often  he  rejected 
the  vast  canvas  for  the  smaller  space  and  closer  crafts- 
manship. Now  he  would  clarify  the  impression  by 
an  array  of  epithets,  now  he  would  suggest  a  character 
by  a  jaunty  anecdote.  For  instance,  you  might  read 
a  dozen  characters  of  Peter  the  Great,  yet  miss  the 
essential  quality  presented  by  Saint- Simon  in  half  a 
page.  Peter,  says  the  chronicler,  indignant  at 
England's  lassitude  in  sending  him  an  embassy,  dis- 
played no  anxiety  to  receive  William's  representatives. 
From  day  to  day  he  put  off  the  audience,  and  at  last 
declared  that  he  would  receive  them  on  board  a  Dutch 
man-of-war  which  it  was  his  pleasure  to  inspect. 
The  Ambassadors  complained  of  the  informality  of 
the  reception ;  but  they  complained  far  more  bitterly 
when  the  Emperor  sent  word  that  he  was  at  the  mast- 
head, and  would  see  them  there.  The  Englishmen, 
not  sailors  enough  to  mount  the  rigging,  excused 
themselves  with  what  timid  grace  they  might.     But 


SAINT-SIMON  165 

the  Emperor  insisted  that  he  would  entertain  them 
there  or  not  at  all ;  and  after  many  parleyings,  they 
submitted  to  his  caprice,  and  laboriously,  foot  by  foot, 
they  climbed  the  rigging.  Upon  this  narrow  and 
aerial  ground  the  Czar  received  them  with  the  same 
majesty  wherewith  he  would  have  bidden  them 
approach  his  throne.  He  listened  to  their  speech  ; 
gave  a  favourable  answer  to  the  King  and  the  nation  ; 
laughed  at  the  fear  depicted  upon  their  faces  ;  and 
explained  with  a  smile  that  it  was  the  punishment  of  a 
too  tardy  arrival. 

But  Saint-Simon's  most  renowned  achievement  is  to 
etch  a  portrait  with  a  handful  of  bitter  phrases,  and 
none  ever  suffered  so  acutely  at  his  hands  as  the 
President  Harlay,  who  had  dared  to  support  the  pre- 
tension of  M.  de  Luxembourg.  "This  issue  of  great 
magistrates,"  wrote  the  Duke,  "  had  all  their  gravity, 
which  he  carried  even  to  cynicism  ;  he  affected  their 
disinterestedness  and  modesty,  and  dishonoured  these 
qualities,  the  one  by  his  conduct,  the  other  by  a 
refined  but  extreme  pride,  which,  in  spite  of  himself, 
leapt  to  discovery.  He  plumed  himself  above  all 
upon  his  probity  and  justice,  but  the  mask  soon  fell. 
Between  John  Doe  and  Richard  Roc  he  preserved  the 
utmost  rectitude  ;  but  no  sooner  did  he  perceive  an 
interest  to  flatter  or  a  favour  to  gain  than  he  instantly 
found  his  price.  ...  He  was  learned  in  public  law  ; 
he  had  a  firm  hold  upon  the  principles  of  juris- 
prudence ;  in  literature  he  equalled  the  most  accom- 
plished ;  he  had  a  perfect  knowledge  of  history  ;  he 


1 66  SAINT-SIMON 

knew  how  to  control  his  company  with  an  authority 
which  endured  no  repartee,  and  which  no  other 
President  had  ever  attained.  A  pharisaical  austerity 
rendered  him  terrible  by  the  license  of  that  public 
reproof  which  he  administered  to  litigants,  advocates, 
and  magistrates,  so  that  none  had  business  before  him 
without  a  shudder.  Moreover,  supported  in  all  points 
by  the  Court,  of  which  he  was  the  slave,  the  most 
humble  servant  of  whatever  was  in  favour  there,  a  fine 
courtier,  a  strangely  cunning  politician,  he  turned  all 
his  brilliant  talents  to  domination  and  success,  deter- 
mined before  all  things  to  make  the  reputation  of  a 
great  man.  Without  honour,  with  no  private  morals, 
with  none  save  an  outward  probity,  even  without 
humanity — in  a  word,  a  perfect  hypocrite,  without 
faith,  law,  God,  or  soul,  a  cruel  husband,  a  barbarous 
father,  a  tyrannical  brother,  a  friend  only  of  himself, 
malicious  by  nature,  delighting  in  insult,  outrage,  and 
impertinence,  he  never  once  in  his  life  lost  an  oppor- 
tunity of  evil.  .  .  .  Outwardly  he  was  a  little  man, 
vigorous  and  thin,  with  a  diamond-shaped  face,  a  large 
aquiline  nose,  fine,  speaking,  piercing  eyes,  which 
looked  only  by  stealth,  but  which,  fixed  upon  a  client, 
or  a  magistrate,  sufficed  to  drive  him  into  the  earth. 
He  wore  a  not  very  ample  coat,  clerical  bands  and  flat 
cuffs,  a  brown  wig  mixed  with  white,  bushy  but  short, 
and  over  all  a  big  coif.  He  held  himself,  even  when 
he  walked,  slightly  bent,  with  a  false  air  of  humility 
rather  than  of  modesty,  and  he  always  shaved  the  walls 
so  as  to  make  room  for  himself  with  as  much  noise  as 


SAINT-SIMON  167 

possible,  and  at  Versailles  he  never  moved  a  step  with- 
out respectful  and  even  shameful  bows  to  right  and 
left." 

That  is  a  portrait  which  Tacitus  himself,  Saint- 
Simon's  one  rival  in  the  art  of  literary  portraiture, 
might  have  drawn  without  shame  or  regret.  It  is 
bitter  enough,  yet  it  reveals  a  man  and  not  a  monster, 
an  individual,  not  a  type  ;  and  even  if  Saint-Simon  did 
his  enemy  an  injustice,  he  was  just  to  himself  and  to 
his  craft.  For  the  Harlay,  drawn  in  this  memorable 
passage,  is  a  living,  breathing  personage,  softened  into 
life  by  certain  traits  of  talent  and  amiability.  But 
Saint-Simon  is  not  always  thus  severe  upon  his  con- 
temporaries. He  praises  the  Due  d'Orleans  and 
Monseigneur  with  a  loyalty  that  nothing  can  blunt. 
He  approaches  Beauvilliers  and  Ranee  in  the  silent 
attitude  of  hero-worship.  From  the  time  when  he 
first  linked  the  bonds  of  friendship  he  never  wavered 
for  a  moment  in  his  loyalty  to  the  Due  d'Orleans,  and 
the  death  of  the  Regent  inspired  him  to  a  panegyric 
the  more  notable  for  the  general  hatred  and  distrust. 
He  praises  his  talents  without  stint  or  hesitation,  and 
he  is  silent  concerning  those  indiscretions  which  might 
have  brought  discredit  upon  the  Regent's  memory. 

His  foibles,  the  Duke  confesses,  were  known  to 
all  ;  but  it  was  abroad,  rather  than  at  home,  that  his 
brilliant  qualities  were  recognised.  Not  even  his 
bitterest  enemies  could  belittle  his  experience,  his 
liberal  and  just  wisdom,  the  grandeur  of  his  genius  and 
his  views,  his  singular  penetration,  his  resourcefulness 


168  SAINT-SIMON 

and  fertility  in  expedient,  his  dexterity  of  conduct 
under  all  changes,  circumstances,  and  events  ;  the 
charity  wherewith  he  considered  and  combined  all 
things  ;  his  superiority  over  his  own  Ministers  and 
those  sent  by  foreign  Powers  ;  his  exquisite  discern- 
ment in  the  unravelling  of  affairs  ;  and,  finally,  the 
learned  ease  with  which  he  replied  on  the  spot,  when- 
ever he  chose.  These  qualities,  thought  Saint-Simon, 
were  sufficient  to  distinguish  the  loftiest  prince,  and 
to  counterbalance  a  transitory  feebleness  of  life  and 
conduct. 

But,  honourably  as  he  admired  the  Due  d'Orleans, 
it  was  the  Due  de  Bourgogne  who  had  won  Saint- 
Simon's  tenderest  regard.  Not  only  was  his  respect 
for  this  prince  profound  :  his  knowledge  was  deep 
as  his  respeet.  The  portrait  of  the  Dauphin,  in 
fact,  is  drawn  with  the  sympathy  which  comes  of 
life-long  intimacy  ;  but  it  was  not  easy  to  draw,  and 
Saint-Simon,  in  painting  this  complex  character,  shows 
himself  once  more  a  master  of  mankind.  The  Due 
de  Bourgogne,  then,  was  born  with  all  the  passions 
and  all  the  vices  that  could  beset  a  prince.  He  was 
arrogant,  passionate,  and  of  a  surpassing  obstinacy. 
He  could  not  endure  the  interference  even  of  times  or 
seasons,  and  a  shower  of  rain  was  enough  to  throw 
him  into  a  fury.  So  high  was  he  above  the  rest  of  the 
world,  that  the  utmost  of  his  condescension  was  to 
believe  his  brothers  a  feeble  link  between  himself  and 
the  human  race.  As  he  grew  up  he  devoted  himself 
with  a   fierce   energy  to  all  the  pleasures   that   were 


SAINT-SIMON  169 

possible  to  his  rank.  He  surrounded  himself  with 
mistresses,  he  played,  he  drank,  he  was  transported 
with  rage  at  the  smallest  check  of  fortune. 

His  infirmities  did  but  accentuate  his  excesses. 
Lame  and  hunchbacked,  he  was  prevented  from  the 
sports  and  exercises  he  loved  so  well.  His  pride, 
moreover,  was  hourly  shocked  by  the  deformity  which 
all  his  ingenuity  could  do  no  more  than  palliate.  But 
at  the  same  time  he  was  gifted  with  an  intelligence 
which  set  him  far  above  his  family  and  his  Court. 
There  was  no  branch  of  science  which  he  had  not 
studied,  and  he  was  born  with  an  instinctive  under- 
standing of  politics.  Had  he  lived,  the  destiny  of 
France  might  have  been  changed,  for  he  was  incapable 
of  the  suicidal  blindness  which  encouraged  the  Re- 
volution. Moreover,  with  years  came  discretion,  and 
this  marvel  of  restless  dissipation  was  suddenly  chastened 
by  a  fervent  piety  from  the  follies  which  had  disgraced 
his  first  youth.  Henceforth  he  devoted  himself  with 
a  whole  heart  to  literature  and  affairs.  Alive  and 
alert  to  the  destiny  which  he  believed  to  await  him,  he 
conferred  with  ministers,  he  made  himself  indispens- 
able to  the  army,  he  proved  in  a  thousand  ways 
his  perfect  fitness  to  govern  France.  "The  King," 
said  he,  "  is  made  for  the  people,  not  the  people 
for  the  King  :  "  thereby  explaining  his  distrust  of 
Louis  XIV.  and  his  keen  perception  of  France's  real 
necessities. 

Above  all — and  here  he  touched  Saint-Simon  in  his 
most  delicate  point — he   deplored   the   collapse  of  the 


170  SAINT-SIMON 

nobles,  and  in  the  many  discourses  wherein  he  opened 
his  heart  to  his  favourite  Duke,  he  declared  that  once 
upon  the  Throne  he  would  ensure  the  safety  of  his 
country  by  readjusting  the  balance  of  the  powers. 
His  conviction  that  the  people  were  the  real  masters 
of  the  Throne  persuaded  him  to  detest  warfare  and 
luxury,  the  two  methods  employed  by  his  grandfather 
to  exaggerate  the  grandeur  of  which  he  was  never 
certain.  But  none  the  less,  he  maintained  an  inalter- 
able loyalty:  he  treated  the  King  with  a  more  than 
filial  respect,  and  he  never  approached  Madame  de 
Maintenon  without  the  submission  due  to  her  pomp 
and  influence.  His  converse  was  amiable,  weighty, 
and  reasoned.  Avid  of  knowledge,  he  always  sought 
the  counsel  of  such  as  were  specially  informed,  and  he 
had  no  taste  for  the  mediocrities  which  surrounded 
the  Throne.  His  virtue  was  the  more  solid  because 
it  was  established  upon  a  knowledge  of  vice,  and  this 
prince,  who  had  known  all  things,  and  had  drunk  the 
very  dregs  of  life,  had  yet  preserved  energy  enough 
to  be  a  great  ruler. 

But  he  died  young,  perhaps  of  poison,  and  left 
Saint-Simon,  who  might  have  proved  his  colleague, 
to  indite  his  panegyric.  "France,"  says  the  courtier, 
"fell  under  this  last  punishment.  God  showed  her 
a  prince  whom  she  did  not  deserve.  The  earth  was 
not  worthy  of  him  :  he  was  already  ripe  for  eternal 
happiness." 

On  occasion  he  can  be  even  gay,  and  his  picture  of 
d'Aubignd-,  the  drunken,  reckless  brother  of  Madame 


SAINT-SIMON  171 

de  Maintenon,  is  nothing  less  than  a  light-hearted 
caricature.  "  He  was  called,"  says  the  historian,  "  the 
Comte  d'Aubigne ;  he  had  never  been  anything  but  a 
captain  of  infantry,  yet  he  spoke  of  the  old  wars  as  a 
man  who  had  deserved  everything,  and  who  had  suf- 
fered the  most  egregious  wrong  in  not  having  been 
made  a  Marshal  of  France  long  ago  ;  at  other  times  he 
would  say,  with  a  grin,  that  he  had  taken  his  baton  in 
money.  He  attacked  Madame  de  Maintenon  after  the 
most  terrible  fashion  that  she  had  not  made  him  a  duke 

and  a  peer Of  money  he  was  a  perfect  sieve, 

impossible  to  close  ;  but  he  was  endowed  with  a  pretty 
wit  for  such  sallies  and  repartees  as  were  wholly  unex- 
pected. Withal  a  good  fellow  and  an  honest  man, 
polite,  and  free  from  the  vanity  which  the  situation  of 
his  sister  might  have  made  impertinent.  None  the 
less  he  was  marvellously  impertinent,  and  it  was  a 
pleasure  you  might  often  experience  to  hear  him  dis- 
course on  the  times  of  Scarron,  in  the  Hotel  d'Albret, 
or  on  times  even  before  that.  Now  and  again  nothing 
would  restrain  him  from  discoursing  upon  his  sister's 
gallantries,  from  comparing  her  devotion  and  present 
situation  to  her  ancient  adventures,  and  from  expressing 
his  surprise  at  her  monstrous  good  fortune.  All  this 
was  bad  enough,  but  it  was  not  the  end  of  the  rascal's 
pleasantry.  For  at  times  he  would  sit  upon  a  bench 
in  the  Tuileries,  and  entertain  the  world  with  the 
most  flippant  discourse,  calling  the  King  his  brother- 
in-law."  No  wonder  d'Aubigne  was  banished  to  a 
retreat,  and  bidden  to  spend  the  rest  of  a  droll  life  in 


172  SAINT-SIMON 

religious  exercises.  But  he  lived  long  enough  in  the 
world  for  Saint-Simon  to  know  and  understand  him, 
and  to  leave  us  a  sketch  which  is  none  the  less  amusing 
for  the  gentle  malice  which  inspires  it. 

Yet  Saint-Simon  had  a  thousand  friends,  and  it 
is  to  the  glory  of  England  and  of  Dutch  William  that 
the  Earl  of  Portland  is  among  his  heroes.  Of  this 
nobleman  he  paints  what  is  perhaps  the  most  amiable 
portrait  in  all  his  vast  gallery,  though  his  appreciation, 
maybe,  was  heightened  by  Louis  XIV.'s  hatred  of  the 
British  King,  who  had  declined  without  parley  to 
marry  a  Royal  bastard.  But  whatever  the  motive, 
the  portrait  is  there — sketched  with  an  undeniable 
loyalty  and  admiration.  Bentinck,  says  he,  was 
discreet,  secret,  polite,  faithful,  and  adroit.  A  perfect 
sportsman,  and  a  lofty  gentleman,  he  had  not  only 
accompanied  his  own  Prince  in  all  his  enterprises,  but 
had  even  won  over  the  French  Court,  and  was  singled 
out  by  the  reluctant  Louis  for  special  favour.  Louis, 
in  fact,  advertised  his  admiration  of  the  dignified 
Ambassador,  and  conferred  upon  him  the  last  favour 
in  permitting  him  to  hold  his  candlestick  as  he  retired 
to  rest.  Monsieur,  on  the  other  hand,  found  him  the 
best  companion  in  the  chase,  and  was  never  so  happy 
hunting  the  wolf  at  Marly  as  when  Bentinck  was  by 
his  side.  His  appearance  at  Court  was  overwhelming. 
"  He  had  a  personal  eclat"  says  Saint-Simon,  "a  polite- 
ness, an  air  of  the  world  and  of  the  Court,  a  gallantry, 
and  a  grace  which  surprised  everybody.  With  that, 
much  dignity,  much  haughtiness  even,  but  tempered 


SAINT-SIMON  173 

by  discernment,  and  a  prompt  judgment,  which  left 
nothing  to  chance." 

Thus  Saint-Simon  suggests,  with  kindliness  and 
grace,  the  amiable  traits  of  his  friends.  Whomever 
he  pictures  he  marks  off  from  all  his  fellows.  The 
zeal  of  precision  never  flags,  and  the  least  of  his 
models  has  henceforth  a  separate  and  distinct  existence. 
The  epithets  are  always  felt,  the  traits  essential  to  the 
character.  Here,  for  instance,  is  a  thumb-nail  sketch 
of  Chamilly,  the  hero  or  villain  of  the  Portuguese 
Letters^  upon  whom  sentimentality  has  emptied  the 
whole  cruse  of  its  venom.  "He  was  a  tall,  fat  man," 
writes  the  biographer,  "  but  very  well  made,  extremely 
distinguished  for  his  valour  in  several  actions,  and 
celebrated  by  his  defence  of  Grave.  He  was  a  gentle- 
man of  honesty  and  worth,  who  lived  everywhere 
most  honourably  ;  but  he  had  so  little  wit,  that  the 
world  was  continually  surprised,  and  his  wife,  who  had 
much,  often  embarrassed.  As  a  youth  he  had  served 
in  Portugal,  and  it  was  to  him  that  the  Portuguese 
Letters  were  addressed  by  a  nun  whom  he  had  known, 
and  who  had  gone  mad  for  love  of  him." 

So,  while  the  partisans  of  the  lovesick  nun  have  told 
you  without  ceasing  that  Chamilly  was  a  miracle  of 
heartless  cynicism,  Saint-Simon  explains  no  more  than 
that  he  was  tall,  fat,  brave,  honest,  and  witless.  The 
soldier,  in  brief,  obscures  the  Don  Juan,  and  there  is 
no  doubt  which  is  the  truer  portrait.  Again,  he 
sketches  Law,  the  Scottish  banker,  with  the  humour 
of  condescension,  and    the    contempt  due  to  inferior 


174  SAINT-SIMON 

origin.  Yet  he  liked  the  man,  and  cherished  a 
genuine  admiration  of  his  buoyant,  kindly,  modest, 
gallant  disposition.  He  absolves  him  entirely  from 
avarice  and  dishonesty,  and  finds  him,  in  fact,  a  fanatic 
rather  than  a  swindler,  unspoilt  by  fortune,  and 
superior  to  ruin.  Mrs.  Law  did  not  meet  with  equal 
favour  in  Saint-Simon's  judgment.  To  begin  with, 
she  was  not  Law's  wife  at  all,  but  an  English  lady  of 
good  family,  who  had  followed  him  for  love,  and  who 
bore  his  name  without  the  ceremony  of  marriage. 
None  the  less,  she  was  haughty,  even  insolent  in  her 
manners.  She  received  homage  in  her  own  house, 
but  she  rarely  paid  visits,  and  was  rewarded  for  her 
pride  and  fidelity  by  the  constant  care  and  respect  of 
her  husband. 

Very  different  in  style  is  the  character  of  Fenelon, 
which  is  drawn  with  a  firmer  hand,  and  with  the 
august  dignity  which  became  the  subject.  "  This 
prelate,"  writes  Saint-Simon  in  his  most  renowned 
passage,  "  was  a  tall  thin  man,  well  made,  and  pale, 
with  a  big  nose,  eyes  whose  fire  and  spirit  leaped  forth 
like  a  torrent,  and  a  physiognomy  whose  like  I  have 
never  seen,  and  which  none  could  forget  who  once 
had  seen  it.  It  contained  everything,  yet  there  was 
no  strife  of  opposites  upon  it.  There  gravity  and 
gallantry,  seriousness  and  gaiety  were  depicted  ;  there 
were  suggested  at  once  the  man  of  learning,  the 
bishop,  and  the  grand  seigneur.  But  the  air  which 
was  breathed,  not  only  from  his  face  but  from  his 
whole  person,  was  an  air  of  delicacy,  wit,  the  graces, 


SAINT-SIMON  175 

seemliness,  and,  above  all,  nobility.  It  required  an 
effort  to  cease  from  looking  at  him.  His  manners 
corresponded  to  this  aspect.  He  had  an  ease  which  he 
imparted  to  others,  and  a  good  taste  which  comes  only 
from  familiarity  with  the  best  company  and  the  great 
world.  Withal  he  possessed  a  natural,  soft,  and  ornate 
eloquence,  a  politeness  which,  if  insinuating,  was 
always  noble  and  suited  to  the  occasion,  an  easy, 
smooth,  agreeable  elocution,  and  an  air  of  clearness 
and  lucidity  which  made  him  intelligible  in  the  most 
difficult  and  complicated  discourses. 

"Moreover,  he  was  a  man  who  never  cared  to  have 
more  wit  than  those  with  whom  he  spoke,  who  set 
himself  within  the  reach  of  all  without  making  the 
condescension  felt,  whose  charm  put  every  one  at  his 
ease,  so  that  it    was    impossible    to  leave  him,  or  to 
refrain  from  him,  or  not  to  try  to  meet  him  again. 
In  fact,  he  possessed  this  rare  talent  in  so  remarkable 
a  degree  that,  despite  his  fall,  he  attached  his  friends 
to  him  for    their  whole    lives,  and,  even    after    their 
dispersion,  reunited  them  to   talk    of  him,  to  regret 
him,  to  desire  his  presence,  to  cling  to  him  more  and 
more,  as    the   Jews    to   Jerusalem,  to    sigh    after  his 
return    and    to    hope    it    always,    as    this    wretched 
people    awaits    and    sighs    after    its    Messiah.      It    is 
also  by  this  authority  of  prophet    acquired  over   his 
friends,  that    he  was    used    to    a    domination  which, 
for  all  its  mildness,  would  not  brook  resistance.       Had 
he  returned  to  the  Court  and  taken  his  seat  upon  the 
Council,  which  was  his  great  ambition,  he  would  have 


176  SAINT-SIMON 

endured  no  rival:  once  he  was  anchored  and  indepen- 
dent of  others,  it  would  have  been  dangerous,  not  only 
to  oppose  him,  but  not  to  have  supported  him  always 
with  compliance  and  admiration."  This,  indeed,  is 
the  true  eloquence  of  panegyric,  phrased  and  balanced 
with  a  care  which  F^nelon  himself  would  have  ap- 
proved. And  if  you  would  find  an  adequate  contrast, 
turn  at  once  to  the  few  lines  of  contumely  which 
Saint-Simon  devotes  to  the  despicable  M.  du  Maine — 
that  man  of  mud,  who  sought  refuge  in  the  darkness, 
and  whom  even  the  darkness  threw  up. 

But,  in  truth,  he  never  writes  without  the  distinc- 
tion which  comes  of  understanding  and  courage:  and 
while  his  judgments  are  coloured  by  the  animosities  of 
his  nature,  they  are  never  marred  by  timidity  or  lack 
of  frankness.  He  is,  indeed,  an  historian  who  dared 
to  paint  all  his  fellows  as  they  appeared  to  his  honest 
yet  partial  eye  ;  and,  while  he  is  never  a  match  in 
concision  for  Tacitus,  he  emulates  that  writer  of 
genius  in  a  dozen  other  qualities.  At  any  rate,  one 
court  is  revealed  to  us  by  the  clairvoyance  and  daring  of 
a  single  man;  and  if  we  assume  to  know  the  men  and 
women  of  Louis  XIV.'s  time,  it  is  to  the  surpassing 
talent  of  Saint-Simon  that  we  must  give  thanks  for 
our  intimacy  and  appreciation. 


A    FRIEND    OF    KINGS 


M 


A    FRIEND    OF    KINGS 

CHARLES  JOSEPH,  prince  de  Ligne,  was  born 
in  1735,  at  the  Castle  of  Beloeil.     His  family, 
the  most  highly  distinguished  in  the  Low  Countries, 
possessed    such    wealth  and    titles  as  make  success  a 
commonplace    and    grandeur    a    necessity.     A    Field- 
Marshal's  baton  lay  in  his  cradle  ;  he  was  a  grandee  of 
Spain  before  he  could  speak  ;  and,  at  his  birth,  some 
fairy  godmother  hid  beneath  his  pillow   the  priceless 
gifts  of  undying  childhood  and  eternal  gaiety.     That 
he  flashed   his    first   smile  upon    Belgium    is    strange 
enough  ;  it  is  still  stranger  that  this  miracle  of  joyous- 
ness  was   the    son    of  a  joyless,  stern,    fantastic    old 
warrior.     He  who  was  destined  to  be  an  amiable  lover 
encountered    in    his  youth    nothing   save    hate.     His 
father,  frank  and   liberal    in  his  detestation,  left    his 
education  to  a  pack  of  tutors,  only  one  of  whom,  said 
the  ingenuous  victim,  believed  in  a  God.     Nor  did 
the  paternal    fury    decrease    with  years.     When    the 
young  Prince  was  made  colonel — at  twenty-three — in 
the  regiment  of  the  family,  his  father  congratulated 
him    in  a  masterpiece  of  contempt.     "  Next  to  the 
unhappiness  of  having    you    for   a    son,"   wrote    the 


180  A  FRIEND  OF  KINGS 

Field-Marshal,  "I  know  none  more  acute  than  the 
unhappiness  of  having  you  for  a  colonel."  But  the 
Prince  cared  as  little  for  his  father's  malevolence  as 
for  the  brutality  of  the  pedants  who  pretended  to 
direct  his  studies.  And  no  misfortune  availed  to  stem 
the  full  tide  of  his  talent  and  ambition. 

He  dreamed  away  his  boyhood  in  visions  of  military 
glory ;  even  the  fresh  slumber  of  fifteen  was  disturbed 
by  the  haunting  prowess  of  Charles  XII.  and  the 
great  Conde,  while  the  stately  gardens  of  Belceil  were 
the  theatre  of  a  hundred  imagined  exploits.  At 
sixteen  he  wore  the  uniform  of  Austria,  and,  received 
at  Court  with  every  mark  of  favour  and  distinction, 
he  presently  began  that  career  of  frolic  prodigality  and 
splendid  abandonment  which  death  alone  interrupted. 
His  father,  who  had  long  since  lost  the  habit  of 
smiling,  frowned  upon  his  excesses  in  cold  displeasure, 
shuddered  at  his  triumphs,  and  determined  to  put  an 
end  to  the  enchanting,  extravagant  romance  by  an 
uncongenial  marriage.  It  was  not  his  wont  to  take 
counsel  with  his  son,  even  where  the  boy's  heart  was 
concerned,  and,  once  the  resolution  framed,  he  neither 
expected  nor  encountered  opposition.  The  young 
Prince  had  returned  to  Belceil  with  an  astounding 
array  of  debts,  and  the  father's  grim  and  only  com- 
ment was  to  order  his  departure  on  the  morrow.  He 
accompanied  his  son  without  a  word,  and  without  a 
word  they  arrived  in  Vienna.  They  took  up  their 
abode  at  a  house  thronged  with  pretty  women,  married 
or   marriageable.     The  son  was  set  at  dinner  next  to 


A  FRIEND  OF  KINGS  181 

the  youngest ;  but  as  no  word  of  warning  had  been 
spoken,  he  knew  nought  of  the  drama  wherein  he  was 
playing  the  principal  part.  At  last  his  valet  whispered 
him  what  was  the  rumour,  yet  left  him  in  doubt 
whether  it  was  his  mother-in-law,  an  aunt,  or  the  lady 
herself  that  was  his  destined  bride.  However,  he  was 
married  in  a  week  to  a  Princess  of  Lichtenstein,  to 
whom  he  had  spoken  scarce  a  word,  and  who  remained 
unto  the  end  a  reverenced  and  charming  stranger. 
"I  found  her  amusing  for  a  fortnight,"  said  he,  "and 
afterwards  indifferent."  But  not  for  a  moment  did  he 
demur  to  the  fate  prepared  by  his  father.  He  accepted 
it,  as  he  accepted  whatever  was  serious  in  life,  with  an 
easy  jest,  and  a  perfect  assurance  that  nothing  could 
mar  the  prevailing  happiness.  If  he  could  not  give 
love,  he  was  very  generous  of  courtesy,  but  he  re- 
solved never  to  surrender  to  a  Belgian  home  the 
talents  which  were  meant  for  the  crowned  heads  of 
Europe.  "  Are  you  married  ?  "  asked  a  courtier  many 
years  afterwards.  Ouiy  mais  si  peuy  smiled  the  Prince 
de  Ligne,  who  continued  his  brilliant  Odyssey  un- 
perturbed. 

He  had  been  a  bridegroom  but  a  few  months  when 
the  Seven  Years'  War  gave  him  that  chance  of  glory 
for  which  his  ardent  soul  was  thirsting.  Though  the 
better  part  of  his  life  was  spent  in  a  frivolous  diplo- 
macy, he  was  soldier  first,  and  gallant  afterwards. 
Indeed,  it  was  but  for  lack  of  opportunity  that  his 
sword  was  ever  sheathed,  and  the  feud  between 
Frederic  and  Maria  Theresa  was  the  first  fuel  to  the 


182  A  FRIEND  OF  KINGS 

fire  of  his  military  ambition.  He  was  a  soldier  of  the 
ancient  type,  to  whom  the  whistle  of  the  bullets  was 
the  sweetest  music,  and  who  esteemed  personal  valour 
more  highly  than  the  defter  arts  of  war.  Not  for 
him  to  revolutionise  tactics,  or  to  trap  his  opponent  by 
months  of  patient  watchfulness.  He  loved  fighting 
for  its  own  sake,  and  was  always  ready  to  give  his  life 
in  exchange  for  a  brilliant  action.  Nowhere  was  his 
gaiety  so  remarkable  as  in  the  field.  He  charged  the 
enemy  in  a  fury  of  good  spirits,  and  was  never  so 
happy  as  when  the  first  to  enter  a  beleaguered  fort. 

That  his  carelessness  escaped  the  proper  reward  of 
death  is  but  a  part  of  that  astounding  luck  which 
never  deserted  him.  There  was  no  risk  of  war  which 
he  did  not  invite,  yet  he  survived  years  of  serene 
courage  and  reckless  intrepidity.  Had  his  skill  been 
equal  to  his  enthusiasm,  he  might  have  left  us  a  per- 
fect description  of  war.  Yet  his  pen  limped  long 
behind  his  intention,  and,  for  all  his  protestation,  the 
field,  and  not  the  study,  was  his  rightful  province. 
However,  he  compels  the  world  to  share  such  a  vague 
excitement  as  inspired  his  own  breast  in  the  very  heat 
of  action.  "To  speak  well  of  a  battle,"  says  he, 
"you  must  know  such  a  moment  of  drunkenness  as 
comes  to  you  when  a  battle  is  won.  For  a  battle  is 
like  an  ode  of  Pindar :  you  must  bring  to  it  an 
enthusiasm  which  almost  touches  delirium.  .  .  .  Here 
there  is  no  servile  march  to  follow.  The  first  calcu- 
lations are  upset  by  circumstances  impossible  to  fore- 
see. .  .  .  Who,  indeed,  shall  prophesy  all  the  imbecili- 


A  FRIEND  OF  KINGS  183 

ties,  all  the  hazards?  A  mere  nothing  decides  the 
fate  of  a  day,  which  decides  the  fate  of  an  empire  ; 
and  it  is  by  the  event  that  you  appear  an  Achilles  or 
Thersites.  I  am  astonished  that  a  single  soul  survives 
a  battle.  How  shall  you  not  die  of  grief  if  you  lose, 
and  of  joy  if  you  win  ?" 

In  this  temper,  then,  he  fought  through  the  Seven 
Years'  War,  rejoicing  always  in  the  stress  of  combat 
and  in  the  abounding  vigour  of  his  blood.  But  he 
was  little  less  apt  for  the  elegance  of  Courts,  and 
Maria  Theresa  showed  her  knowledge  of  men  when, 
after  Marxen,  she  sent  him  with  the  news  of  victory 
to  Versailles.  Here  his  triumph  was  conspicuous,  as, 
indeed,  it  might  be,  since  he  had  all  the  qualities 
which  compel  success.  Young,  handsome,  WJ< 
very  riot  of  spirits,  which,  says  the  Comte  de  Segur, 
came  near  to  madness,  how  should  he  fail  at  a  Court 
which  set  gaiety  high  among  the  virtues  ?  Moreover, 
though  he  was  not  rich,  yet  he  was  a  spendthrift,  and 
lack  of  money  was  no  bar  either  to  his  happiness  or 
his  magnificence.  Even  with  an  empty  pocket  he 
would  travel  in  state,  and  the  direst  poverty  gave  no 
flutter  to  the  heart  of  this  imperturbable  gambler.  But 
if  Versailles  received  him  with  acclamation,  he  returned 
her  worship  with  the  courtliest  disdain.  He  despised 
the  King,  he  flouted  the  reigning  favourite.  He 
detected  everywhere  a  meanness  and  stupidity,  which 
he  was  at  no  pains  to  palliate  or  condone.  Nor  did 
his  contempt  spring  from  prejudice,  since  France  was 
and  remained  until  his  death  the  country  of  his  choice. 


1 84  A  FRIEND  OF  KINGS 

Though  the  Low  Countries  gave  him  birth,  though 
he  exulted  in  the  Austrian  uniform,  though  for  a 
while  he  was  Catherine's  obedient  servant,  his  wit  was 
French,  his  talent  was  French,  his  desires,  where  war 
was  not  in  question,  never  strayed  far  from  Paris. 

But  dulness  was  inexcusable,  even  though  it  were 
French  ;  and  he  recoiled  in  horror  from  the  stupidities 
of  Louis  XV.  and  the  insolent  patronage  of  Madame  de 
Pompadour.  The  King  (said  he)  asked  the  silliest 
questions,  discussing  the  weather  of  Vienna  with 
Stahremberg,  and  bidding  the  Papal  Nuncio  describe 
after  what  fashion  the  Pope  dressed  his  pages.  The 
favourite  was  more  serious  and  less  discreet.  In  an, 
instant  she  was  lost  in  the  clouds  of  politics  and 
For  i  benefit  of  the  Prince  she  sketched  hai,  a. 
plans  of  campaign,  and  then  with  an  august 
wave  of  the  hand  declared  "  we  are  selling  our  plate  to 
carry  on  your  war."  And  as  though  this  condescen- 
sion were  not  enough,  she  proceeded  to  reprove  the 
ladies  of  Prague,  to  which  folly  the  Prince  found  no 
repiy.  But  the  King  atoned  for  his  stupidity  by  the 
gift  of  a  superb  ring,  which  De  Ligne  pawned  the 
next  day  with  the  facile  conscience  of  youth  and 
health.  "  In  those  days,"  wrote  he,  "  I  cared  for 
nothing.  I  was  only  anxious  to  live,  knowing  that 
war  was  still  waging,  and  being  afraid  that  I  should 
not  get  enough  pleasure  before  I  died."  He  need  not 
have  feared  ;  his  sincere  desire  of  life  and  pleasure  was 
matched  by  the  good  fortune  which  made  all  pleasure 
easy,  and  let  him  live  out  all  his  days.     He  loved,  he 


A  FRIEND  OF  KINGS  185 

laughed,  he  gambled,  he  read,  he  wrote — and  all  with 
a  zest  and  curiosity  which,  while  they  kept  him  ever 
young,  exacted  an  amazed  acquiescence  from  all  the 
world. 

At  Versailles,  then,  he  was  accepted  as  a  master  of 
the  elegances.  Foreigner  though  he  was,  he  enjoyed 
the  unique  experience  of  imposing  his  tastes  upon  a 
cultivated  Court.  He  did  not  accept  the  fashion  of 
the  moment  ;  he  transformed  it  in  an  instant,  and  kept 
it  for  thirty  years  as  his  whim  would  have  it.  His  wit 
and  gallantry  were  alike  irreproachable.  His  brilliant 
conversation,  though  it  enforced  respect,  was  seldom 
K;,'Tr'  enough  to  make  him  enemies.  But  again,  after 
t  pacific  conquest,  the  war  summoned  him  ; 
anu  enough  he  made  many  a  sojourn  in  France,  it  was 
not  until  the  accession  of  Louis  XVI.  that  he  found 
his  home  at  Versailles.  His  hatred  of  Louis  XV.  had 
driven  him  from  the  Court  to  the  Salons,  whose  in- 
trigues were  little  more  to  his  taste  than  the  common- 
places of  the  King.  Yet  the  patronage  of  Marie 
Antoinette  made  all  tilings  a  delight,  and  in  the  few 
years  which  preceded  the  revolution  the  Prince  de 
Ligne  was  supreme  in  Paris  as  at  the  Trianon. 

He  had  changed,  moreover,  since  his  first  appearance 
before  the  French  King.  His  style  had  broadened 
with  experience,  and  he  was  at  last  a  perfect  master  of 
himself  and  of  society.  Once  he  was  no  more  than 
a  man  of  fashion,  now  he  was  a  fashionable  philosopher 
to  boot,  and  there  was  no  Court  in  Europe  whereat 
the  philosophy  of  the  hour  was  not  a  potent  influence. 


1 86  A  FRIEND  OF  KINGS 

The  intervening  years  he  had  spent  in  the  laborious 
idleness  of  travelling  ;  yet  his  idlest  journey  had  not 
been  aimless,  and  he  knew  men  and  cities  more  inti- 
mately than  any  of  his  contemporaries.  The  death 
of  his  father — in  1767 — had  given  him  command  of 
a  princely  fortune,  which  he  spent  with  more  than  a 
princely  extravagance ;  and  since  the  peace  had 
enforced  leisure,  he  made  the  best  of  it,  enjoyed  life 
with  every  nerve  and  fibre,  and  traversed  Europe  up 
and  down  in  sheer  lightness  of  heart. 

But  France  was  still  the  country  of  his  predilection, 
and  Marie  Antoinette  the  Queen  to  whom  he  pre- 
ferred to  pay  homage.  Never  for  a  moment  did  he 
falter  in  his  loyalty  to  his  unhappy  lady,  who  rewarded 
his  devotion  by  a  frank  and  gracious  amiability.  He 
accompanied  her  upon  her  rides  in  the  Bois  ;  when 
there  was  a  spectacle  at  Versailles,  he  was  privileged 
to  stand  beneath  her  box,  and  comment  upon  the 
piece  with  his  nimble  wit  and  high  spirits ;  he  was 
always  present  at  the  concerts  given  under  the  trees 
of  the  Orangery  ;  and  it  was  even  his  lot  to  counsel 
prudence  at  the  masked  balls.  But  the  Court  had  its 
absurdities,  and  only  the  unruffled  temper  of  the 
Prince  de  Ligne  could  preserve  an  even  tranquillity. 
Though  he  remained  ostensibly  upon  cordial  terms 
with  the  King,  he  confesses  that  he  approached  him 
with  an  ,  air  of  patronage.  He  would  protect  him 
against  his  favourites,  and  even  attempt  to  improve  his 
mind  with  conversation  that  was  not  wholly  devoted 
to  sport  and  folly. 


A  FRIEND  OF  KINGS  187 

The  Due  d'Artois  and  his  practical  jokes  were 
more  difficult  of  endurance  ;  yet  the  Prince  was 
never  betrayed  into  a  look  or  a  word  of  ill-temper. 
On  one  occasion  he  had  promised  to  accompany  the 
Queen  upon  her  ride,  while  D'Artois  insisted  that  he 
should  hunt  the  boar  ;  and  the  result  was  a  comedy, 
or  rather  a  farce,  from  which  only  the  Prince  emerged 
with  credit.  At  six  in  the  morning  D'Artois  with  a 
troop  of  companions  thundered  at  his  door,  which  was 
already  barricaded  for  the  siege.  The  attacking  party 
won  the  first  advantage  ;  breaking  into  the  stronghold, 
they  dragged  De  Ligne,  the  most  dignified  courtier 
in  Europe,  from  his  bed  ;  they  hustled  him  into  his 
clothes,  and  carried  him  on  to  the  horse  that  awaited 
him.  But  he  was  too  quick  for  his  assailants.  No 
sooner  was  he  on  horseback,  than  his  foot  slipped  the 
stirrup,  and  he  had  fled  into  the  King's  kitchen. 
Pursued  thence  by  twenty  scullions,  he  took  refuge  in 
the  theatre,  from  which  he  was  dislodged  without  his 
boots  and  with  a  scarred  face.  The  sight  of  blood 
brought  his  opponents  to  reason.  Instantly  they 
ceased  their  noisy  song  of  triumph,  and  left  De  Eigne 
to  bathe  his  wound,  and  meet  the  Queen  upon  the 
terrace.  But  he  would  support  the  most  ribald  of 
practical  jokes  for  the  sake  of  Marie  Antoinette,  and  as 
he  was  her  docile  slave  while  she  lived,  so  after  her 
death  he  was  her  most  eloquent  panegyrist. 

He  collected  monarchs  (so  to  say)  as  the  modern 
interviewer  collects  celebrities.  But  with  a  motive 
infinitely   more  honourable.     It  was  only  among  the 


i88  A  FRIEND  OF  KINGS 

great  that  he  could  find  such  society  as  befitted  his 
magnanimity,  and  he  took  the  place  which  belonged  to 
him  without  a  trace  of  snobbery  or  obsequiousness. 
To  Joseph  II.  he  dedicated  his  sword,  and  Joseph  II. 
rewarded  him  with  a  constant  admiration.  He  was 
present  at  the  Emperor's  coronation  ;  he  witnessed 
his  dignified  and  uncomplaining  death  ;  he  was  one  of 
the  four  who  carried  his  body  to  its  last  resting-place 
at  the  Capucines  ;  and  he  described  him  to  Catherine, 
in  a  masterpiece  of  measured  grief,  as  "  the  Prince 
who  did  honour  to  man — the  man  who  did  the  greatest 
honour  to  Princes." 

But  if  he  loved  the  Emperor  Joseph  more,  it 
was  the  great  Frederic  who  ranked  higher  in  his 
regard.  To  this  hero  alone  he  paid  the  tribute 
of  timidity  :  short-lived,  indeed,  yet  none  the  less 
sincere.  He  was  wont  to  compare  him  to  Henry  IV., 
in  his  eyes  the  supreme  hero  of  all  time  ;  to  Louis  XL; 
to  Francis  I.  "  An  old  wizard  who  divined  all 
things,  and  whose  tact  was  the  finest  I  have  ever 
seen" — that  was  his  opinion,  based  upon  a  ripe 
experience  ;  but  for  all  the  King's  grandeur,  De 
Ligne  was  prepared,  once  he  had  conquered  his  shy- 
ness, to  fight  him  on  politics,  or  to  chatter  encyclo- 
paedias. And  then,  as  if  to  prove  his  catholicity,  he 
gave  a  liberal  share  of  the  heart,  already  claimed  by 
Marie  Antoinette,  to  Catherine  le  Grand,  the  invin- 
cible, august,  unscrupulous  Empress  of  All  the 
Russias.  She,  who  had  never  seen  his  like,  declared 
that  he  thought  profoundly  and  behaved  like  a  child  j 


A  FRIEND  OF  KINGS  189 

and  he  attended  the  orgies  of  her  half-savage,  wholly 
splendid  Court  with  a  zest  which  appeared  a  kind  of 
madness  to  the  most  flippant  of  her  Ambassadors. 

He    witnessed,    said    he,    the    last    magnificence    of 
Europe,  when  the  Empress,  despite  her  glacial  climate, 
wedded  Asiatic  luxury  to  the  splendour  of  Louis  XIV., 
of  the  Greeks,  of  the  Romans,  of  the  Thousand  Nights 
and  a  Night.    For  her  he  acted  the  spy  upon  Potiamkin  ; 
for   her   he   put   off  his   own   uniform  to   assume  the 
uniform    of    Russia.       He    was    one    of    those    who 
followed  her  to  the  Crimea,  on  that  exultant  journey 
which  was    half-campaign,   half-picnic.     Though   the 
grandeur  was  little  to  his  taste,  "  though  "  (in  his  own 
words)  "  the  carriages  were  full  of  peaches  and  oranges, 
though  the  valets  were  drunk  witli  champagne,  though 
he  died  of  hunger,  and   found  nothing  warm,  save  the 
drinking  water,"  yet  his  curiosity  never  slept,  and   he 
spent  the  days  in  a  marvelling  enjoyment.     And  well 
he  might,  for  the  Empress  set  out  in  a  chariot,  drawn 
by  thirty  horses,  containing  room  to  seat  eight  persons, 
with   a   card-table  and  library  by  way  of  distraction. 
The  diplomacy  consisted  in  a  free  exchange  of  bouts 
rimes  and  epigrams.     When  once  they  had  left  their 
chariots  for  the  barges  which  carried   them  down  the 
Dnieper,  he  awoke  De  Segur  every  morning  by  shout- 
ing   impromptus    through    the    dividing  wall  of   their 
cabins,  he  carried  on  an  elaborate    correspondence  at 
ten  paces,  and  in  his  assumed  character  of  "  diplomatic 
jockey  "  he  discussed  politics  after  the  frivolous  fashion 
which  endeared  him  for  ever  to  the  Empress  Catherine. 


190  A  FRIEND  OF  KINGS 

Thus  he  spent  his  life,  in  unbroken  merriment, 
seeing  all,  and  flashing  upon  all  that  amazing  wit 
which,  without  gesture  and  glance,  is  the  shadow 
of  a  shade.  Thus  he  knew  Maurocordato,  the 
tyrant  of  Moldavia,  whose  harem  was  an  open 
house,  and  whose  kingly  ideal  was  universal  happiness. 
Thus  he  knew  Casanova,  whom  he  hated,  and 
whom  he  described  with  more  than  his  wonted 
venom  as  proud,  because  "  he  was  nobody,  and  had 
nothing."  And  wherever  he  went,  whomsoever  he 
saw,  he  was  happy  ;  not  because  he  sought  happiness, 
but  because  no  other  temper  was  possible  to  him. 

Never  idle,  never  listless,  he  must  always  inaugurate 
a  new  enterprise,  invent  a  new  idea,  or  visit  a  new 
country.  And  as  adventures  are  for  those  who  seek 
them,  his  life  was  packed  with  surprise.  Avid  of  all 
things  save  money,  he  was  never  a  fortune-hunter. 
He  avoided  diplomacy,  because  he  would  not  be  a 
shopman  of  intrigue  ;  and  when  peace  compelled  him 
to  sheathe  his  sword,  he  always  found  a  fresh  project 
to  engross  him.  "  I  never  reflect,"  he  boasted ; 
"either  I  am  busy,  or  I  fall  into  a  suave  idleness." 
Yet,  so  lofty  was  his  ideal  of  happiness,  that  he  con- 
fesses— this  courtier  who  never  knew  chagrin — that 
only  four  days  of  his  life  were  truly  and  completely 
happy  :  the  day  when  first  he  put  on  his  uniform,  the 
day  before  his  first  battle,  the  day  that  he  first  knew 
that  he  was  loved,  and  the  day  that  he  got  over  the 
small-pox.  These  very  exceptions  to  years  of  un- 
broken happiness  prove  him  incapable  of  fatigue,  and 


A  FRIEND  OF  KINGS  191 

give  him  the  right  to  call  his  career  the  most  joyous 
that  he  knew. 

But  with  the  burden  of  time  even  his  activity 
decreased,  or  rather  it  was  diverted  from  the  field 
and  the  high  road  into  the  study.  If  he  had  not 
squandered  his  life  in  laboriousness,  he  had  not 
suffered  the  ignominy  of  rest  ;  and  at  last  he  retired  to 
Vienna  and  the  softer  toil  of  literature,  but  not  with- 
out adding  up,  in  a  spirit  of  genial  boastfulness,  the 
sum  of  his  achievements.  "  I  will  bet,"  said  he,  "  I  have 
spent  three  years  of  my  life  and  more  than  one  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  florins  in  carriages  alone  ;  and  an 
equal  sum  in  gambling.  My  campaigns  have  cost  me 
more  than  five  hundred  thousand,  and  above  that  I  have 
given  two  hundred  thousand  to  my  regiment  and  to  the 
other  troops  I  have  had  under  my  command.  I  have 
spent  an  equal  sum  in  f£tes,  reviews,  and  manoeuvres. 
In  fact,  I  reckon  that  my  expenditure,  since  I  have 
been  in  the  world,  has  been  six  or  seven  millions  of 
florins."  And  for  this  he  had  seen  whatever  was  most 
amiable  and  attractive  in  Europe  ;  but  he  had,  alas  !  also 
witnessed  the  squalid  encroachment  of  revolution,  and 
the  consequent  decay  of  all  the  Courts. 

Wherefore  he  retired  to  Vienna,  broken  in  fortune, 
yet  gallant  as  in  his  splendid  youth,  and  cultivated  the 
muses  with  the  same  energy  and  zeal  with  which 
aforetime  he  had  pursued  pleasure.  Had  he  been  a 
modern  Englishman  he  might,  perhaps,  have  contented 
himself  with  golf  and  an  occasional  article  furtively 
contributed  to  a  magazine  ;  but  being  a  true  child  of  his 


i92  A  FRIEND  OF  KINGS 

age  he  was  determined,  like  his  betters,  to  shine  in 
philosophy.  At  a  time  when  literature  was  as  steadfast  a 
necessity  of  the  Court  as  gambling,  how  should  the 
Prince  de  Ligne  escape  the  contagion,  especially  when 
he  was  gifted  with  a  ready  tongue  and  never-failing 
repartee  ?  So  he  committed  the  one  indiscretion  of  his 
life  :  he  became  a  literary  fop,  like  Frederic  the  Great, 
whom  he  pronounced  in  all  seriousness  more  of  a  man  of 
letters  than  Catherine  ! 

And  as  nothing  came  amiss  to  his  talent,  he 
wrote  all  things,  prose  and  verse,  history  and  romance, 
comedies  and  characters.  He  would  reach  the  confines 
of  human  knowledge,  like  M.  de  Voltaire ;  or 
with  Jean-Jacques  he  would  go  beyond  the  distant 
horizon,  anxious  for  a  precipitate  return  to  nature 
— he  for  whom  nature  was  nothing  and  the  foibles 
of  men  an  absorbing  interest.  But  at  any  risk 
he  must  be  in  the  movement  ;  and  the  movement 
of  his  day  was  to  be  not  an  artist  in  words,  a 
pretty  juggler  of  phrases,  but  a  resolute  collector  of 
facts,  an  ambulatory  encyclopaedia.  And  the  know- 
ledge which  he  had  gathered  in  every  corner  of  Europe 
could  not  be  collected  in  less  than  forty  volumes  !  That 
the  publisher  who  produced  this  forgotten  library  went 
bankrupt  is  not  surprising  ;  the  marvel  is  that  the 
author  survived  ;  and,  indeed,  so  vast  a  baggage 
were  enough  to  undo  the  reputation  even  of  the 
Prince  de  Ligne  had  any  one  been  intrepid  enough  to 
unpack  it. 

For    the    ironical    truth    is  that  he — the  nobleman 


A  FRIEND  OF  KINGS  193 

and  courtier — was  rather  a  journalist  than  a  man  of 
letters.     He    recorded  the  foibles  of  his  time  with  a 
pretty   wit  ;    his    visit    to  Spa  might  have  made  the 
fortune  of  a  society  paper  ;  he  could  sketch  a  portrait 
in  a  page  and  a  half  with  more  penetration  and  justness 
than  the  most  of  his  fellows  :  and  when  he  condescends 
to  autobiography,  he  is  uniformly  enchanting.     But 
his    solemn  treatises  are  unread  and  unreadable  ;  his 
forty  volumes  are  but  quarries,  wherefrom  the  literary 
stone-breaker  may    collect  a   few  blocks   of  genuine 
marble.    And  the  literary  stone-breakers,  with  Madame 
de  Stael   at  their    head,    have    done  the   best  for  his 
reputation.     His  weakness  is  amiable,  and  he  shared  it 
with  the  best  of  his  contemporaries,  whose  indiscreet 
love  of  letters  is   the  strangest    feature   in   a   strange 
epoch.     A  race  of  heroes,  to  which  the  battlefield  was 
a  delight  and  a  necessity,  was  bitten  with  an  ambition 
to  ape   Voltaire  !     And  there  is   more  danger  in  this 
defection  from  an  heroic  ideal  than  appears  at  the  first 
glance.     For  when   kings  would   become  journalists, 
then   the  people  would    become    kings,    and    in    this 
universal  fever  of  dulness  you  may  detect  revolution  in 
the  making. 

But  the  Prince  de  Ligne  was  always  quick  to 
correct  the  habit  of  pedantry  by  a  stern  observation. 
When  Frederic  was  agog  to  dig  and  plant  with  Virgil 
in  his  hand,  the  Prince  was  instant  in  discouragement. 
"  Sire,"  said  he,  "  Virgil  was  a  great  poet,  but  a  very 
bad  gardener;"  and  here  the  Prince's  judgment  was 
infallible,  for  he  had  his  favourite  subject  at  his  finger's 

N 


194  A  FRIEND  OF  KINGS 

end,  and  has  left  us  as  wise  a  treatise  as  exists  upon  the 
art  and  science  of  gardens.  Nor  did  his  literary  vanity 
seduce  him  to  pretentiousness.  He  was  always  con- 
scious of  his  limitation  and  recognised  that  it  was  the 
pruning-knife  of  Madame  de  Stael,  who  cut  forty 
volumes  into  two,  that  revealed  his  slender  talent  to 
the  world.  Above  all,  he  was  incapable  of  patronage. 
He  valued  the  friendship  of  Voltaire,  the  acquaintance 
of  Rousseau,  as  highly  as  he  esteemed  the  amiability 
of  Marie  Antoinette  ;  he  approached  them  with  the 
deference  that  was  due  to  the  masters  of  their  craft, 
and  with  so  sensitive  a  freedom  from  egoism  that, 
when  he  visited  Rousseau,  he  did  not  think  it  necessary 
to  reveal  his  name.  And,  if  his  complete  works  were 
never  vivified,  he  wrote  pages  not  a  few  which, 
frozen  as  they  are  in  the  coldness  of  type,  give 
a  hint  at  least  of  the  warmth  and  brilliance  of  his 
conversation. 

But  apart  from  his  experiments  in  literature,  neces- 
sary to  subdue  his  restless  activity,  he  spent  his  last 
years  in  a  retirement  which  was  an  honourable  con- 
clusion to  an  honourable  career.  Not  even  his 
straitened  means  conquered  his  vanity  and  love  of 
display.  Though  his  house  upon  the  ramparts  of 
Vienna  was  small,  it  was  illustrious,  and  was  dignified 
by  the  style  and  title  of  the  Hotel  de  Ligne.  His 
salon  was  narrow  as  a  corridor  ;  yet  here  stood  the 
most  distinguished  statesmen  of  Europe,  proud  only  to 
have  gained  admittance,  and  thither  came — in  1807 — 
Madame  de  Stael,  with  profound  humility  and  perfect 


A  FRIEND  OF  KINGS  195 

acquiescence  in  the  temper  of  the  man  who  despised 
her. 

And  at  seventy-two  he  was  still  a  fop  and  still  a 
gallant.  "  His  delicately  malicious  and  gaily  ironic  wit," 
wrote  Count  Ouvaroff,  who  knew  him  only  in  old  age 
"  was  allied  with  a  sweetness  of  character  and  an  equality 
of  temper  that  were  unparalleled."  Gravity  only  was 
distasteful  to  him,  and  he  would  always  turn  the  con- 
versation with  a  word  or  a  nod  from  too  serious  a 
topic.  His  pride  was  flattered  by  the  eagerness  where- 
with the  curious  pointed  their  finger  at  him  in  the 
street,  and  he  was  yet  anxious  to  attract  the  attention 
which  was  his  due.  He  would  walk  abroad  in  the 
Field-Marshal's  cloak  which  became  his  youthful 
figure,  or,  still  more  splendid,  he  would  drive  in  his 
grey  coach,  whose  white  horses  were  the  wonder  of  all 
Vienna.  His  happiness  had  suffered  no  eclipse  ;  his 
talk  was  as  marvellous  as  when  he  astonished  the  Court 
of  Versailles,  and  not  even  his  wrinkles  obscured  the 
dazzle  of  his  smile.  The  best  of  life  had  been  his,  and 
he  waited  the  end  in  placid  content,  and  it  is  in  his 
triumph  in  Vienna,  rather  than  in  his  cumbrous 
books,  that  you  catch  the  last  glimpse  of  the  Prince  de 
Ligne. 

In  brief,  the  grey  coach  was  a  clearer  revelation 
of  his  spirit  than  his  treatise  on  the  Thirty  Years' 
War,  and  it  was  with  a  justified  pride  that — in  1815 — 
he  did  the  honours  of  Vienna  to  the  whole  of  Europe. 
He  died,  as  he  would  have  wished  to  die,  with  all 
men's  eyes  upon  him,  and   amid   the  gaieties  of   the 


iq6  A  FRIEND  OF  KINGS 


Congress.  "  Le  Congrcs  ne  marche  pas;  il  danse," 
these  were  his  parting  words,  and  his  last  epigram. 
And  thus  in  the  victory  of  a  great  man,  who  played 
the  most  elegant  part  in  the  drama  of  his  time,  is 
Belgium  avenged  for  a  century  of  affronts. 


THE   CALIPH    OF    FONTHILL 


THE   CALIPH    OF    FONTHILL 

WILLIAM  BECKFORD,  torn  by  misfortune 
from  the  palace  of  Fonthill,  restricted,  yet  did 
not  lose,  his  unbroken  ambition  of  pomp  and  magnifi- 
cence. His  collection  at  Bath  was  all  the  choicer  for 
an  enforced  economy ;  the  new  tower  which  rose  upon 
Lansdown  Hill  was  at  once  more  stable  and  more 
elegant  than  Wyatt's  shattered  unsightliness.  Though 
no  park  separated  his  windows  from  the  world's  eye,  the 
door  was  opened  to  his  rare  visitants  by  a  Spanish  dwarf, 
broad-faced,  shapeless,  and  flat-footed.  Here  on  the 
threshold  was  a  symbol  of  his  distinction  ;  throughout 
a  long  life — and  he  preserved  his  youth  for  fourscore 
years — he  never  stooped  to  common  surroundings,  nor 
accepted  the  drab  superstition  of  his  meaner  contem- 
poraries. 

The  son  of  a  Lord  Mayor,  he  was  yet  a  child  or 
genius  ;  and  being  debarred  the  University  by  his 
mother's  whim,  he  was  educated  under  the  watchful 
eye  of  Lord  Chatham,  who  declared  he  was  "all  air 
and  fire."  His  guardians,  designing  him  for  a  political 
career,  had  set  him  down  sternly  to  the  study  of 
Greek  and  Latin.     But  it  was  the  pictured  East  that 


200        THE  CALIPH  OF  FONTHILL 

engrossed  his  boyish  imagination  ;  under  the  tutelage 
of  Zenir,  the  Turk,  he  had  translated  the  manuscripts 
of  that  other  mystification,  Wortley  Montagu ;  and 
(may  be)  his  fancy  had  already  Orientalised  old  Font- 
hill  into  the  Hall  of  Eblis.  Nor  should  the  taste 
have  been  unforeseen  :  a  love  of  the  East  was  in  his 
blood,  and  he  had  a  genuine  pride  in  his  kinship  with 
the  author  of  Les  ^uatre  Facardlns.  "  I  think  Count 
Hamilton  will  smile  on  me,"  he  wrote  to  Henley, 
"  when  we  are  introduced  to  each  other  in  Paradise." 
But  his  family  imposed  discipline,  and  an  exemplary 
tutor,  one  Lettice,  who  never  forgot  to  address  his 
pupil  and  patron  in  the  proper  terms  of  adulation, 
presented  him  to  the  cultured  society  of  Geneva, 
trained  him  in  the  polite  learning  of  the  day,  and  led 
him  to  Ferney,  that  he  might  pay  homage  to  the 
aged  Voltaire. 

Thus  he  was  a  scholar  in  his  teens,  and  when, 
at  twenty-one,  he  inherited  a  colossal  fortune,  he 
was  already  master  of  that  knowledge  and  experience 
which  should  distinguish  luxury  from  dissipation. 
Handsome,  with  a  fearless  eye  and  the  lofty  mien 
of  aristocracy,  he  made  the  tour  of  Europe  with 
unparalleled  splendour ;  the  quickness  of  his  imagination 
enabled  him  to  see  all  things  in  a  strangely  personal 
light ;  and  he  was  still  a  boy  when  he  printed 
his  Dreams,  Waking  Thoughts,  and  Incidents,  the 
first  vivid  hint  of  the  fancies  and  opinions  which 
remained  with  him  till  his  death.  "  I  am  a  fervent 
classic,"  he  wrote,  in  complete  unconsciousness  of  his 


THE  CALIPH  OF  FONTHILL        201 

genuine  instinct.  For  he  was  no  classic  at  all,  but 
an  unbridled  romantic  :  a  prophet  of  that  nascent 
school  which  Gray  and  Bishop  Percy  had  inaugurated. 
Nature  was  his  goddess,  not  Art,  and  Nature  not 
trimmed  and  clipped  by  the  dainty  hand  of  man,  but 
rough  and  unkempt,  with  tumbled  flowers  and  hurt- 
ling rocks. 

Through  whatever  land  he  passed,  it  was  always 
his  pleasure  to  separate  himself  from  his  companions, 
and  to  commune  with  trees  and  mountains  in  a 
spirit  that  Wordsworth  might  have  envied.  The 
discovery  of  myrtle  in  bloom  throws  him  into  an 
ecstasy  ;  at  Florence  he  is  more  constant  to  the 
adoration  of  an  old  crooked  ilex  than  to  the  treasures 
of  the  UfHzi.  He  would  sit  for  hours,  he  says,  in  the 
woods  of  the  Cascini,  "  hear,  without  feeling,  the 
showers  trickling  above  my  head,  and  see  the  cattle 
browsing  peacefully  in  their  pastures,  which  haze] 
copses,  Italian  pines,  and  groves  of  cypress  enclose." 
So  he  would  wander,  drunk  with  the  dews  of  the 
morning,  passing  his  delicate  fingers  through  his  jet- 
black  hair,  rejoicing  in  the  music  of  the  birds,  pluck- 
ing flowers  with  fresh-hearted  devotion,  and  quoting 
Theocritus  that  the  classics  might  not  be  wholly  for- 
gotten. So,  with  half-sincerity,  he  would  imagine 
himself  a  child  of  Sylvanus,  forget  that  London  is 
peopled  with  prowling  savages,  and  believe  that  the 
sounds  and  sights  of  the  country  are  sufficient  for  the 
aspirations  of  mankind. 

This  sense  of  romance  perplexed  his  judgment,  and 


202        THE  CALIPH  OF  FONTHILL 

at  times  made  blind  his  eyes.  The  discreet  beauty  of 
Holland,  the  well  ordered  perfection  of  her  cities,  the 
exquisite  fashion  of  her  houses  meant  nothing  to 
him.  He  still  sighed  for  rocks  and  waterfalls,  and 
affected  to  miss  the  exotic  foliage  of  the  South. 
Insensible  to  the  charm  of  space  and  light,  blinded  by 
poetic  reminiscences  to  the  golden  atmosphere  of  the 
dunes,  he  shudders  at  Amsterdam,  and  tells  you  at 
Haarlem  that  "all  his  dislike  of  the  walking  filth  of 
the  Low  Countries  had  returned." 

But  this  love  of  romanticism  is  not  without  its 
compensation.  It  imparts  to  his  travels  a  note  of  lyric 
jubilation  hitherto  unknown  in  English  literature.  If  his 
book  is  not  good  prose,  it  might  have  been  admirable 
verse,  and  he  who  contained  so  many  prophecies  in 
his  brain  was  thus  an  inventor  of  the  prose  poem. 
Moreover,  a  quick  response  to  the  aspect  of  streams  and 
flowers  and  trees  saved  him  from  that  obliquity  which 
overtakes  the  lettered  antiquary,  and  enabled  him  to 
look  upon  Rome  (for  instance)  with  clear  and  steadfast 
vision.  Unmercifully  does  he  belabour  the  archaeolo- 
gist, who  tells  him  that  five  years  would  not  reveal  to 
him  half  that  Rome  contains,  and  instantly  going  forth 
to  condemn  the  Coliseum,  he  is  inspired  with  "a 
vehement  desire  to  break  down  and  pulverise  the  whole 
circle  of  saints'  nests  and  chapels,  which  disgrace  the 
arena." 

His  enthusiasm  is  as  enchanting  as  the  movement 
and  energy  of  his  style.  He  cannot  sit  in  Petrarch's 
chair  without   bestirring   himself  with   vivid   imagin- 


THE  CALIPH  OF  FONTHILL        203 

ings.  It  is  only  with  a  timid  reverence  that  he  places 
himselt  upon  it,  and  he  is  "pensive"  (you  may  be 
sure)  when  he  reflects  that,  sitting  in  the  same  chair, 
Petrarch  was  found  dead.  But  still  he  tempers  his 
romance  with  a  respect  for  old  masters,  and  intensifies 
his  piety  with  a  loyal  admiration  of  music.  Even 
the  horror  of  the  Lowlands  is  mitigated  by  Corelli's 
symphonies,  and  at  Antwerp,  the  organ  "  transported 
him  to  Italian  climes."  Wherefore  you  are  not  sur- 
prised to  detect  in  these  early  impressions  a  suspicion 
of  that  artificiality  which  fought  against  the  fashion- 
able romanticism,  and  presently  dominated  him. 
The  conflict  is  brusque,  but  rearonable.  The  young 
Beckford,  in  his  own  despite,  was  already  half  in  love 
with  the  fantastic,  and  would  forget  at  times  the 
grosser  glories  of  nature  in  the  more  refined  ingenui- 
ties of  mankind. 

Perhaps  he  remembered  the  eloquence  of  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  and  reflected,  lounging  beneath  a  twisted 
ilex,  that  were  the  world  now  as  on  the  Sixth 
Day,  there  were  yet  a  chaos.  At  any  rate,  he  is 
sometimes  seduced  into  admiration  of  extravagant 
artifice.  Now  he  recalls  with  delight  the  festival 
given  at  Venice  to  Henri  III.  of  France,  when  the 
ancient  square  was  turned  by  an  awning,  brilliant 
with  artificial  stars,  into  a  vast  saloon,  and  carpeted 
with  the  matchless  tapestries  of  Persia.  Now  he 
envies  the  supreme  illusion  of  Gualbertus,  who  from 
his  rocky  cell  saw  saints  and  martyrs  sweep  across  the 
sky,    and  read    his    missal    by  the    light  of    opening 


204        THE  CALIPH  OF  FONTHILL 

Heaven.  This  love  of  the  artificial  and  the  bizarre 
encroached  with  encroaching  years,  until  the  whole 
world  believed  him  a  mystery  ;  but  he  first  visited  Italy 
in  a  spirit  of  frank,  ingenuous  romanticism ;  and 
Apuleius  is  the  Latin  writer  who  for  the  moment 
exercised  the  weightiest  influence  upon  his  mind  and 
vision. 

As  he  approached  the  bleak  hamlet  of  Lognone,  he 
was  confronted  upon  a  mountain  path  by  two  hags,  who 
stepped  straight  from  the  pages  of  The  Golden  Ass. 
They  were,  in  truth,  shaped  less  by  nature  than  by 
literary  reminiscence,  and  they  could  never  have 
scowled  upon  a  traveller  whose  eyesight  had  not  been 
informed  by  study.  In  their  hands  were  ominous 
lanterns,  and  it  was  with  a  sinister  grin  that  they 
offered  the  strangers  a  dish  of  mustard  and  crows' 
gizzards,  cooked,  no  doubt,  in  printer's  ink,  and  served 
upon  an  ancient  quarto.  And  Beckford,  remember- 
ing the  source  of  his  observation,  declined  the  banquet 
in  terror,  lest  he  should  be  changed  forthwith  to  a 
bird  of  darkness,  and  sit  till  doomsday  upon  the  roof 
of  a  smoke-grimed  cottage.  In  brief,  he  coloured 
the  present  in  the  romantic  hues  of  the  past,  and 
learned  from  books  to  be  the  fervent  child  of  Nature. 

But  the  Excursion  to  the  Monasteries  of  Alcoba^a  and 
Batalha  is  the  masterpiece  of  his  experience,  and  is  so 
far  embellished  by  memory  and  invention  as  to  seem  a 
work  of  pure  imagination.  Grandeur  is  its  motive, 
and  Petronius  its  model,  though  the  travellers  set 
forth  with  a  splendid  retinue,  and  are  the  very  inverse 


THE  CALIPH  OF  FONTHILL        205 

of  the  immortal  beggars.  It  was  the  Regent  of 
Portugal  who  ordered  the  expedition,  and  the  prepara- 
tion was  worthy  this  princely  patronage.  At  last — it 
was  in  1794 — Beckford  had  learnt  how  to  live  : 
he  knew  the  triumphs  which  money  might  buy  ;  and 
a  French  cook  added  no  less  to  the  dignity  of  his 
retinue  than  a  German  physician.  "  Depart  from  thy 
palace  surrounded  by  all  the  pageants  of  majesty — thy 
most  faithful  slaves,  thy  best  beloved  wives,  thy  most 
magnificent  litters,  thy  richest  loaden  camels — and  set 
forward  on  thy  way  to  Istakar."  Such  the  command 
given  to  Vathek,  when  he  quested  the  treasures  of  the 
Preadamite  Sultans  ;  and  in  a  spirit  of  equal  magnifi- 
cence did  Vathek's  creator  leave  his  quinta  of  San 
Jose. 

The  travellers  are  idealised  as  frankly  as  the 
adventure.  The  author  himself  is  drawn  in  the  true 
heroic  style,  while  his  companions — the  Grand  Prior 
of  Aviz  and  the  Prior  of  St.  Vincent's — are  admirably 
imagined,  the  one  the  laziest,  the  other  the  most  com- 
plaisant, prelate  that  ever  did  honour  to  a  sumptuous 
and  exclusive  Church.  The  narrative  glitters  with 
sunlight  and  magnificence,  and  the  orange-orchards  of 
Portugal  are  an  appropriate  background.  The  even- 
ings passed  like  the  mornings  in  a  perfection  of  indo- 
lence— "all  warmth,  chat,  and  idleness."  Yet  every 
stage  had  its  surprise,  and  Bcckford's  excitement  flags  as 
little  as  his  unwearying  commentary  upon  life  and  art. 
An  accidental  encounter  with  a  Chinese  missionary 
throws  him  into  an  ecstasy,  and  his  enthusiasm  leaps 


206        THE  CALIPH  OF  FONTHILL 

at  the  wonders  of  Pekin.  In  the  Emperor's  garden 
this  wayward  apostle  of  artifice  might  have  realised 
his  ideal.  For  even  in  winter,  said  the  Padre,  the 
walks  were  warmed  with  scented  vapour  ;  the  season 
was  forgotten  in  the  silken  leaves  which  peopled  the 
trees  ;  while  gaily  enamelled  ducks  quacked  automati- 
cally as  they  took  the  food  flung  by  the  eunuchs  into 
their  mouths  of  brass.  "Dreadful!"  exclaimed  the 
Grand  Prior  ;  "  I  wonder  the  Emperor  has  not  shared 
the  fate  of  Nebuchadnezzar."  But  Beckford  smiled, 
and  thought  prophetically  of  Fonthill. 

The  reception  at  Alcobaca  is  a  veritable  page  from 
an  aristocratic  Satyricon.  No  sooner  were  the  "  coo- 
ings  and  comfortings "  of  the  Lord  Abbots  suitably 
performed  than  a  shout  arose  :  "  To  the  kitchen  ! 
To  the  kitchen  ! "  And  there  were  such  preparations 
for  the  feast  as  Trimalchio  could  not  have  surpassed, 
and  only  Beckford  imagined.  "  Through  the  centre 
of  the  immense  and  nobly  groined  hall  " — to  change  a 
word  were  to  spoil  a  masterpiece — "  not  less  than 
sixty  feet  in  diameter,  ran  a  brisk  rivulet  of  the 
clearest  water,  flowing  through  pierced  wooden 
reservoirs,  containing  every  sort  and  size  of  the  finest 
river-fish.  On  one  side,  loads  of  game  and  venison 
were  heaped  up  ;  on  the  other,  vegetables  and  fruit  in 
endless  variety.  Beyond  a  long  line  of  stoves  extended 
a  row  of  ovens,  and  close  to  them,  hillocks  of  wheaten 
flour  whiter  than  snow,  rocks  of  sugar,  jars  of  the 
purest  oil,  and  pastry  in  vast  abundance,  which  a 
numerous   tribe   of  lay-brothers  and   their  attendants 


THE  CALIPH  OF  FONTHILL        207 

were  rolling  out  and  puffing  up  into  a  hundred  dif- 
ferent shapes,  singing  all  the  while  as  blithely  as  larks 
in  a  corn-field."  What  a  noble  sense  is  here  of 
wealth  and  gluttony,  of  recklessness  and  splendour, 
suitable  alike  to  ancient  Portugal  and  to  "  England's 
wealthiest  son  "  ! 

And  so  the  royal  progress  continued  :  the  never- 
ending  banquets  were  enriched  by  delicacies  from 
China  and  Brazil  ;  a  lay-brother  was  in  attendance 
to  dress  shark-fins;  and  the  "divine,  perfumed, 
ethereal  Aljubarota "  assuaged  the  mightiest  thirst. 
Nor  did  the  French  cook  fall  below  this  great 
occasion  :  his  macedoine^  murmured  the  Lord  Abbot, 
was  worthy  Alexander  the  Great,  while  his  omelettes 
were  safe  from  oblivion  so  long  as  Portugal  frowned 
upon  the  sea.  At  night  the  romance  ceased  not ; 
it  became  grave ;  and  the  monastery  of  Batalha 
awoke  to  the  awful  imprecation  of  a  mad  priest. 
"Judgment  !  judgment  !"  lie  cried  ;  "tremble  at  the 
anger  of  an  offended  God."  Then  by  a  changing 
whim,  Beckford  would  affect  his  old  love  of  solitude, 
and,  mounting  his  Arabian,  would  seek  the  distant 
tranquillity  of  river  banks,  or  haply  espy  behind  a 
convent  lattice  the  adorable  Francisca.  But  the 
plump,  round-bellied  abbots  were  jealous  of  his 
absence,  and  presently  he  returns  to  marvel  at  the 
excruciating  tragedy  of  Donna  Inez  de  Castro,  and  to 
hear  the  heartrending  tag,  "  Perish  they  shall,"  echoed 
from  a  ladder-top  by  an  aged  monk. 

The  monks  were  not  the  only  fantastic  inhabitants 


208        THE  CALIPH  OF  FONTHILL 

of  Portugal.  Still  more  grotesque  is  the  bird-queen, 
that  lady  of  august  lineage,  who  had  caged  within  her 
garden  half  the  birds  of  the  country — parrots,  araras, 
and  screeching  cockatoos.  Trimmed  hedges  and 
spruce  parterres  formed  an  amiable  avenue  to  this 
Paradise,  or  Inferno,  of  birds  ;  and  the  lady's  retinue, 
which  was  composed  of  three  sleek  and  sallow  nephews, 
habited  in  faded  court-suits  of  blue  and  silver,  a  dwarf, 
an  ex-Jesuit,  and  a  half-crazed  buffoon,  is  little  less 
terrific  than  the  bevy  of  black-bearded  and  forbidding 
hags  which  surrounded  her.  No  wonder  Beckford 
was  disconcerted  by  this  "ugly  display  of  living 
tapestry,"  but  when  her  Excellency  from  her  high- 
backed  seat  put  the  question :  "  Most  estimable 
Englishman,  have  you  any  native  birds  in  your 
island  ? "  Beckford's  reply  was  triumphant.  "  Yes, 
madam,"  said  he,  "  we  have  ;  one  in  particular — 
seldom  seen,  but  often  heard — the  cuckoo."  And  to 
complete  the  absurdity  of  the  situation,  Franchi  and 
the  buffoon  imitated  the  well-known  note,  until  her 
ladyship  was  dismayed,  and  the  hags  shuddered. 

But  the  Englishman's  fame  had  reached  the  Court, 
and  the  Infanta  imperiously  commanded  an  audience. 
Report  pictured  him  a  miracle  of  fieetness,  and  she 
asked  forthwith  that  he  should  show  his  paces  in  a 
grove  of  catalpas  and  orange  trees.  Being  a  hero, 
and  an  Englishman,  he  gave  his  companions  a  liberal 
start  of  ten  paces,  but  left  them  instantly  behind,  and 
reached  the  goal,  a  marble  statue  dimly  illuminated  by 
transparent  lamps,  an  easy  and  graceful  winner.     The 


THE  CALIPH  OF  FONTHILL        209 

Infanta  was  enchanted,  but    unsatisfied.      "  Now  let 
me  see,"  she    exclaimed,  "  whether   he  can   dance   a 
bolero  ;    if   he    can,  and  I  abhor    unsuccessful  enter- 
prises, Antonita  shall    be  his   partner."     Now  Beck- 
ford  yielded  to  none  in  his  abhorrence  of  unsuccessful 
enterprises  :  wherefore  Antonita  was  his  partner,  and 
they  glided'  along  in  a  "  delirium  of  romantic  delight." 
His  progress  through  Portugal,  then,  was  an  unbroken 
glory.      With  his  French  cook  to  aid,  he   captivated 
the  country  ;  the  Court,  the  Nobles,  and  the  Church 
paid  him  extravagant    honour ;    and    he   carried    back 
to    England    a    memory    which,    though     merged     in 
imagination,     still     flattered     his    vanity    after     fifty 
years. 

After  fifty  years  !     Half  a  century  did   his  impres- 
sions of  Portugal  mature,  and  they  were  better  tenfold 
for   the  keeping.     The    book,  which  opens  with  the 
condescension   of   the  Prince  Regent,  and    breaks  off 
(for  it  does  not  end)  with  a  queenly  scream,  is  even 
more  characteristic   of  its  author    than    Vathek   itself. 
If  the  old  house  at    Fonthill    suggested    the    Eastern 
romance,  the  romance,  in  revenge,  was  the  inspiration 
of  every  subsequent  enterprise.      But  in  the  interval 
IJeckford  had  grown  into  the  mystification  which   has 
become   notorious.      He    had    realised    that    his   genius 
would    find    expression    in    life   rather   than    literature. 
The  double  repute  of  Vathek — in  France  and  England 
— had   given  him  that  touch  with   the  arts  which  was 
necessary   to  the   perfection  of  his  ideal.       At   last    he 
ivas  secure   in   his  own,  if  not  in  the  world's,  admira- 

o 


210        THE  CALIPH  OF  FONTHILL 

tion,  and  henceforth  he  was  free  to  resume  in  his  life 
the  manifold  fancies  of  his  works. 

He    never    tired    of    telling    the   stranger    that    he 
composed  his  famous  Eastern  fantasy  in  three  days  and 
two  nights,  that  during  this  strenuous  period  he  never 
took  off  his  clothes,  and  that  he  hastened  himself  into  a 
sickness  by  heroic  pertinacity.    Though  the  fable  is  not 
strictly  accurate,  truth  lies  in    exaggeration,  and  this 
imagined  hurry  best  represents  the  sudden  forcibleness 
of  the    sublimely   humorous    fable    which    is    Vathek. 
But  the  time  had    come  to  represent    in   a    reasoned 
existence    his     ironic     and    capricious    temperament. 
Spurning  politics,  for  which  his  contempt  was  always 
sincere,   he   retired   to   Fonthill,  where    he  merged   a 
vague    past    in    a  vaguer    future.       Fortunate    in    the 
wealth  which    enabled    him    to    realise    the    manifold 
dreams  of  his  youth,  he  set  the  dramas  of  his  imagina- 
tion upon  a  vast  stage,  which  he  alone  might  contem- 
plate.    Imagine    Shakespeare,  in    retirement  at  Strat- 
ford, acting  now  Hamlet,  now  Romeo,  in  his  own  park 
with   irreproachable  trappings,  and  you  may  form  an 
opinion  of  Beckford's   sojourn  at  Fonthill.       Himself 
the  actor,  himself  the  audience,  he  knew  no  check  to 
his  performance,  he  groaned  at  no  adverse  criticism. 

His  Abbey  was  for  him  what  the  Palaces  of  the  Five 
Senses  were  for  Vathek.  A  love  of  animals,  which 
rendered  all  field  sports  abominable,  separated  him 
completely  from  the  country  gentlemen,  his  neigh- 
bours. He  was  still  better  at  home  (in  spirit)  with 
indulgent    priests,  spendthrift  hidalgoes,  and  distorted 


THE  CALIPH  OF  FONTHILL        211 

dwarfs  than  with  the  strenuous  fox-hunters  of  Eng- 
land.  His  seat  in  Parliament  did  not  mitigate  in  the 
slightest  his  hatred  of  public  life.  Once — in  Portugal 
— he  had  looked  with  complacency  at  tables  whereon 
"  no  newspaper  had  ever  been  thrown  "  ;  he  had  lain  his 
head  "  on  neat,  white  pillows,  guiltless  of  propping  up 
the  heads  of  those  assassins  of  real  prosperity — political 
adventurers." 

But    he    did     not,     like    Byron,    defy    the    world  : 
he    lived    outside     it.      If   in    his    childhood    he    had 
been  spoilt  by  adulation,  a  jealous  antipathy  frowned 
upon  his  manhood.     The  sentiment  and    freedom   of 
his    leaking    Thoughts    inspired    his    friends    with    an 
inveterate    suspicion.     "  Neither    Orlando    nor    Bran- 
dimarte,"  he  wrote  to  Henley,  "  was  ever  more  tor- 
mented   by   daemons    and    spectres    in    an    enchanted 
castle  than  William  Beckford   in   his  own  hall  by  his 
nearest  relations."     His  pride  begot  misunderstanding, 
misunderstanding    created    hate,  and    hate    found    ex- 
pression in  groundless  slander,  until  in  revenge  he  framed 
a   theory  of  solitude,  and  elevated   it  into  a  practice. 
He  was  among  the  first  to  formulate  the  doctrine  of 
individual  effort.     "All  important  truths,"  he  said  with 
astonishing    clairvoyance,    "have    been    the    result    of 
solitary  effort.     None  have  been  discovered  by  masses  of 
people — it   is  fair  to  suppose  they   never  will."     And 
heartened    by    a    proper     arrogance,    he    built    a    wall 
twelve  feet  high  round   the  park  of  Fonthill,  and  set 
himself  to  resume  in  a  sedentary  life  the  conclusions 
of  his  years  of  travel. 


212        THE  CALIPH  OF  FONTHILL 

The  Wiltshire  Downs  provided  the  natural  solace 
for  which  his  romanticism  still  pined.  There  he 
might  listen  to  the  music  of  running  water,  or  throw 
himself  impulsive  under  the  trees.  There,  too,  he 
planted  exotics  of  every  shape  and  kind,  that  the 
genial  South  might  not  be  forgotten  :  thus,  thought 
he,  he  could  put  Portugal  in  his  garden,  and  capture 
Spain  beneath  the  leaden  panes  of  his  glass-house.  A 
thousand  strange  dishes,  innumerable  wines,  availed  to 
transport  his  fancy  wherever  it  would  travel,  and 
within  the  circuit  of  his  own  domain  he  might  enjoy 
voyages  as  fantastic  as  the  famous  excursion  to  the 
Monasteries  of  Alcobaca  and  Batalha.  The  atmosphere, 
which  he  changed  at  will  and  without  regard  to  the 
shifting  seasons,  was  his  own,  and  under  the  sky  of  an 
English  autumn  he  might  mimic  the  sultry  heat  of  an 
Italian  summer. 

His  years  of  solitary  confinement  at  Fonthill 
increased  that  love  of  artificiality  which  was  already 
alive  when  he  made  the  tour  of  Europe,  and  not 
only  did  his  silk  blossoms  rival  the  ingenuity  of  the 
Chinese  Emperor,  but  he  devised  a  painted  tree 
that  should  be  independent  of  winter  or  summer,  of 
sunshine  or  rain.  But  all  this  was  insufficient  for  his 
boundless  energy.  Like  Vathek,  he  must  always  be 
building  towers  or  bidding  palaces  rise  to  the  heaven. 
The  old  house,  in  which  the  Lord  Mayor  had  ex- 
pressed his  modest  taste,  was  too  small  and  ill  situated 
to  fit  the  ambition  of  the  son.  So  Wyatt,  the 
Destroyer,  was  ordered  to  build  the  monstrous  Abbey, 


THE  CALIPH  OF  FONTHILL        213 

an  orgy  of  reckless  Gothic,  and  to  surmount  the 
imposing  edifice  with  a  far-seen,  gigantic  tower. 
The  tower,  built  upon  the  sand,  most  righteously 
collapsed,  but  not  until  death  had  removed  its  architect 
beyond  the  reach  of  rumour  and  reproach.  Other- 
wise how  just  had  been  the  retribution  !  Even  after 
death  must  Wyatt  continue  the  work  of  destruction. 
Unable  longer  to  desecrate  churches,  or  to  tear  down 
abbeys,  he  left  his  own  creations  upon  foundations  so 
insecure  that  time  and  the  winds  of  heaven  were 
sufficient  to  perfect  his  work,  and  Beckford's  folly 
crumbled  harmlessly  to  the  ground. 

Insensate  grandeur  was  the  characteristic  of  Fonthill. 
This  wing  was  an  imitation  of  Canterbury  ;  there  a 
church  tower  was  parcelled  out  in  dwelling-rooms  ;  and 
the  whole  was  in  accord  with  the  flagrant  taste  of  Wyatt 
and  his  time.  Doubtless  Beckford  remembered  the  ill- 
fated  Fonthill,  when  in  his  Portuguese  Excursion  he 
wondered  "  how  persons  of  correct  taste  "  could  tolerate 
Norman  arches  or  the  horseshoes  of  the  Moors, 
"  when  they  might  enjoy  the  lovely  Ionic  so  prevalent 
in  Greece,  the  Doric  grandeur  of  the  Parthenon,  and 
the  Corinthian  magnificence  of  Balbec  and  Palmyra." 
How,  indeed  ?  And  yet  this  miracle  of  taste  con- 
spired with  Wyatt  to  achieve  a  monster,  to  which 
Time  and  Decay  were  kind  beyond  its  desert. 

But  none  the  less  Fonthill  was  sumptuous  and 
immense,  the  proper  scene  of  pageantry  and  display. 
And  even  Beckford  would  interrupt  the  solitude  he 
loved   so  well,   if  there  offered    the  opportunity   of  a 


2i4        THE  CALIPH  OF  FONTHILL 

spectacle.  To  the  Abbey  came  Nelson,  accompanied 
by  Sir  William  and  Lady  Hamilton,  to  receive  the 
homage  paid  by  genius  to  bravery.  The  splendour 
of  the  festival  was  assured,  though  the  guard  of 
Volunteers  seems  a  reminiscence  of  the  city,  and 
though  the  brass  band  must  have  struck  stridently  on 
Beckford's  cultured  ear.  The  Abbey,  still  incomplete, 
wore  the  casual  beauty  of  a  ruin,  and  there  the  most 
brilliant  banquet  was  given.  The  entertainment  was 
certainly  more  barbarous,  and  perhaps  less  amusing, 
than  that  afforded  by  the  monks  of  Batalha ;  but 
Lady  Hamilton  seized  the  opportunity  most  effectively, 
and  appeared  before  Nelson  in  the  garb  of  Agrippina, 
carrying  in  a  golden  urn  the  ashes  of  Germanicus. 

At  times,  indeed,  Beckford  would  play  the  part  of 
a  grand  seigneur.  But  to  the  world  he  remained  an 
impenetrable  mystery,  fearful  to  those  who  knew  him 
not,  yet  quick  to  capture  the  devotion  he  was  steadfast 
to  retain.  Against  the  idle  curiosity  of  strangers  his 
door  was  honourably  closed,  and  when  a  too  zealous 
traveller  did  succeed  in  climbing  the  twelve  feet  of 
wall,  he  was  received  with  so  cold  a  civility  as  was  a 
patent  discouragement  to  his  kind.  One  tourist,  more 
valiant  than  the  rest,  found  himself  in  the  park,  and, 
taking  Beckford  for  the  gardener,  followed  him  com- 
placently into  every  nook  and  cranny,  until  at  last  the 
master  showed  him  to  the  dining-room,  and,  revealing 
himself,  insisted  that  the  stranger  should  remain  to 
lunch.  The  poor  tourist,  overcome  by  terror  and 
even  touched  by  shame,  knew  that  escape  was  hopeless, 


THE  CALIPH  OF  FONTHILL        215 

and  there  he  must  sit  a  weary  hour  under  the  cold, 
disdainful  eye  of  the  man  upon  whose  privacy  he  had 
intruded.  He  went  off,  did  this  tripper,  to  complain 
of  his  patron's  ill-usage ;  but  surely  man-trap  was 
never  so  adroitly  set  !  surely  spring-gun  was  never  so 
quietly  discharged  ! 

Beckford,  in  fact,  never  performed  an  awkward 
duty  awkwardly.  Everything  that  he  ventured  was 
sudden,  distinguished,  unexpected.  The  world,  jealous 
of  his  wealth,  recoiled  also  before  the  bitterness  of  his 
tongue,  the  imperiousness  of  his  vengeance.  When  a 
certain  duchess  would  have  sought  his  hand  for  her 
daughter,  he  gave  her  such  a  lesson  as  avarice  and  ill- 
breeding  have  seldom  received.  He  invited  her  to 
Fonthill  and  put  everything  in  order  as  for  a  royal 
visit.  He  dazzled  her  cupidity  by  an  extravagant 
display,  and  determined  that  she  should  never  set  eyes 
upon  him.  The  servants  treated  her  with  an  eager 
obsequiousness,  yet  gave  uncertain  replies  to  her  con- 
stant query  :  "  Shall  I  sec  Mr.  Beckford  to-day  ? " 
Ever  hopeful,  ever  greedy,  the  duchess  remained  six  or 
seven  days  in  the  hospitable,  tenantless  mansion,  and 
returned  to  London  furious  against  the  man  who, 
without  a  word  spoken,  had  foiled  her  enterprise. 
Thus  you  account  for  his  unpopularity  ;  thus  explain 
the  constant  calumnies  which  an  ignorant,  suspicious 
world  uttered  against  him. 

He  lived  his  whole  life  amiable  and  aloof.  His 
house  was  his  distraction,  his  collection  society.  To 
his  eager  interest  nothing  came  amiss,  and  he  packed 


216         THE  CALIPH  OF  FONTHILL 

his  vast  rooms  with  pictures,  books,  and  curiosities, 
purchased  perhaps  with  more  courage  than  discretion. 
His  love  of  art  was  fashionable,  despite  its  ardour  ;  and 
his  frequent  criticism  of  paintings  belongs  rather  to 
his  time  than  to  himself.  Though  in  his  Biographical 
Memoirs  of  Extraordinary  Painters  he  flagellates  the 
follies  of  others,  he  yet  praises  Poussin  for  his  subjects, 
and  blames  Rubens  for  the  selection  of  his  models. 
None  the  less  he  was  the  fortunate  possessor  of 
countless  treasures,  from  the  best  of  which  not  even 
disaster  could  separate  him,  and  it  is  recorded  to  his 
credit  that,  though  necessity  forced  him  to  sell  his 
pictures,  he  never  till  his  death  parted  with  a  book. 

When  Fonthill  was  taken  from  him,  he  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  bought  prints  instead  of  oil-paintings. 
Even  at  eighty  his  zest  had  no  way  diminished,  and 
on  the  brink  of  the  grave  he  confessed  to  a  dealer  that 
he  was  still  "  all  agog,  all  ardour,  all  intrepidity." 
Nor  did  he  ever  show  more  conspicuously  honourable 
than  at  the  moment  of  ruin.  The  scholar,  who  had 
never  known  a  moment's  boredom  in  his  life,  found  as 
much  pleasure  in  Bath  as  at  Fonthill.  Miserable 
without  a  tower,  he  instantly  commenced  the  edifice 
that  looks  down  to-day  from  Lansdown  Hill.  This, 
said  he,  was  a  necessity,  since  his  slender  house 
afforded  no  prospect  ;  and  so  genuinely  disgusted  was 
he  with  Wyatt's  ill-fated  Gothic  that  a  model  of  the 
Lysicratean  temple — in  iron — surmounted  the  newer 
pillar.  His  ancient  collection  gone,  he  was  no  whit 
disheartened,  and  the  sale-rooms  were  still  the  theatre 


THE  CALIPH  OF  FONTHILL        217 

of  his  enterprise  and  courage.  There  were  still  left 
enough  retainers  for  the  alternate  exercise  of  wit  and 
kindness  ;  and  surely  no  man  who  shunned  the  world 
treated  his  household  with  a  more  generous  friendship, 
no  man  was  ever  so  ingenious  in  reproving  disobedience 
by  a  jest. 

He  left  no  other  biographer  than  a  vulgar  gossip, 
and  you  are  apt  from  his  books  to  view  his  life  in  a 
wrong  proportion.  His  youth  was  spent  in  a  fever  of 
travel  and  composition.  If  Vathek  do  not  rank  among 
the  greatest  works  of  the  world,  it  is  still  a  miracle  of 
grim  wit,  caustic  humour,  contemptuous  irony  ;  and 
once  more  Beckford  distinguished  himself — an  English- 
man— from  all  his  fellows  by  giving  a  masterpiece  to 
the  literature  of  France.  Some  few  burlesques,  now 
sliding  into  forgetfulness,  were  dictated  by  the  same 
spirit  of  careless  satire,  and  if  the  earliest  book  of 
travel  be  a  lyric  expression  of  himself,  the  latest  is  a 
reasoned  expression  of  his  art.  But  his  real  life  lay  as 
far  apart  from  literature  as  from  Spain.  Fonthill  was 
Beckford  made  concrete.  There  he  attempted  to 
create  a  false  world,  to  translate  into  practice  an 
imaginative  ideal.  That  he  failed  was  his  loss  rather 
than  ours.  The  twelve-foot  wall  shuts  out  the  Abbey 
from  prying  eyes  as  sternly  to-day  as  it  did  near  a 
century  ago.  We  can  only  catch  sight  at  a  distance 
of  the  Gothic  tower,  and  marvel  that  his  vast  resources 
of  wealth  and  taste  could  produce  no  better  effect. 
We  can  but  attribute  a  furtive  confusion  between 
Wardour    Street    and    the    perfect    collection    to    the 


218        THE  CALIPH  OF  FONTHILL 

influence  of  his  generation,  which,  despite  his  own 
valiant  theory,  warped  his  judgment.  But  without 
reserve  may  we  admire  a  courteous  gentleman,  splen- 
did in  prosperity,  brave  in  adversity,  who  hated 
the  world's  interruption  as  heartily  as  he  despised  its 
malice,  and  who,  notwithstanding  the  load  of  wealth 
and  sycophancy,  yet  carved  his  life  into  a  definite  and 
a  personal  shape. 


BARBEY    D'AUREVILLY 


BARBEY    D'AUREVILLY 


r  N  life,"  said  Barbey  d'Aurevilly,  "  we  are  strangled 


cc 

between  two  doors,  of  which  the  one  is  labelled 
Too  Soon,  the  other  Too  Late.''''  And  assuredly  none 
was  ever  born  at  so  untoward  a  time  as  the  author  of 
Les  Diaboliques.  It  was  not  the  world  that  was  out  of 
joint  :  that  ancient  machine  obeyed  the  fortuitous 
touch  of  fate  with  as  idle  a  patience  in  1810 — the 
year  of  Barbey  d'Aurevilly's  birth — as  in  the  callow 
childhood  of  Eden.  And  had  its  wheels  perchance 
been  clogged,  he  was  no  Hamlet,  foredoomed  against 
his  will  to  set  them  right.  But  what  should  this 
Merovingian  have  schemed  in  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury ?  His  was  not  the  imbecile  temperament  which 
could  take  a  pleasure  in  the  progress  of  the  age  ;  he 
could  not  dishonour  his  nature  so  far  as  to  seek  a 
kinship  with  the  century  yet  unborn.  No,  without 
deceit  or  circumstance  he  knew  himself  a  stranger  in 
a  strange  epoch  ;  and  while  he  acknowledged  the 
misfortune,  he  repudiated  indignantly  the  disgrace  of 
his  inapposite  appearance. 

Nor  was   his   profession    more   happily   chosen   than 
his   epoch.     Action    was   the    primal    necessity   of  his 


222  BARBEY  D'AUREVILLY 

being.  His  hand  was  fashioned  to  hold  a  sword  ;  yet 
fate  thrust  a  pen  into  his  fingers,  and  he  must  needs 
be  content  with  the  less  dangerous,  more  formidable 
weapon.  He  belonged  to  the  race  of  those  who  are 
tricked  by  their  talent  as  by  their  circumstances  into  a 
career  of  irksome  tranquillity.  He  was  fit  for  every 
stalwart  enterprise.  Had  he  found  a  Sovereign  worthy 
his  allegiance,  he  would  have  dedicated  his  life  and 
courage  to  the  welcome  service  ;  had  he  lived  (as  he 
should  have  lived)  in  the  age  of  chivalry,  he  would 
have  battered  the  stubbornest  castle  for  the  sake  of 
Beauty,  he  would  have  endured  the  fiercest  onset  for  a 
smile.  But  why  should  he  draw  blade  from  scabbard 
to  defend  a  Republic  which  he  despised,  and  for  which 
(said  he)  no  artist  could  ever  strike  a  blow  ?  Why 
should  he  surrender  the  lust  of  words,  the  glory  of  a 
coined  phrase,  for  an  ignoble  cause  ?  Thus,  like 
Carlyle,  like  FitzGerald,  like  many  another  valiant 
warrior,  he  was  betrayed  by  the  exaction  of  literature, 
his  imperious  mistress,  into  a  life  of  inactivity.  Once 
more  Art  conquered  predilection,  and  Art,  as  always, 
was  justified  of  her  victory.  Stripped  of  intelligence 
he  would  have  led  a  forlorn  hope,  or  driven  back  his 
country's  enemies.  But  a  restless  brain  compelled 
him  to  avoid  the  profession  which  his  ingenuity  con- 
tinued to  glorify,  and  a  hostile  environment  deprived 
the  inevitable  defection  of  remorse. 

Barbey  d'Aurevilly,  then,  was  a  mediaeval  knight 
driven  by  a  destiny,  hapless  for  himself,  thrice  blessed 
for  us,  into  the  literary  life  of  the  nineteenth  century. 


BARBEY  D'AUREVILLY  223 

But  not  even  his  talent  persuaded  him  to  accept  the 

conventions  of  his  fellows,  and  he  passed  his  years  in  an 

arrogant  isolation  from  which  he  has  never  emerged. 

For    curiosity    has    not    yet   prompted    his    friends    to 

scandal,  nor  has  the  prattling  tongue  of  truth  attempted 

to  warp  our  judgment.     His    love    affairs  are  unre- 

vealed  ;    his   dignity   remains  unsoiled   by  the   prying 

industry  of  the  pamphleteer.     Hence  we  are  free  to 

fashion   his   portrait,  as    he   would   have   it   fashioned, 

from    his    own    books    and   scanty   confessions.     And 

hence  we  approach   far   nearer   reality  than  we   could 

were  we  perplexed  by  the  patient  research  and  hasty 

discoveries   of  the    literary   rag-picker.     For,    like  all 

writers  of  strong  temperament,  he  surrendered  to  his 

theories  without  a  struggle,  and  he  was  incapable  of 

excluding  either  himself  or   his  convictions  from   his 

romances.     Not  only  does  he  speak  in  his  characters, 

he  comes  behind  them  with  a  sudden  comment  ;  and 

while  you  contemplate  the  fate   of  Le   Chevalier  des 

Touches  or   U Emorcelee  with  interest,  you  are  really 

enlarging     your     acquaintance     with     their     creator. 

Moreover,  he  is  so  near  to  us  that  the  legend,  born  of 

his  mysterious  life,  is  still  fresh  ;  nor  has  it  yet  become, 

as  it  will  by  lapse  of  time,  a  problem  for  the  serious 

historian. 

Born  in  Normandy,  at  St.  Sauveur-le-Vicomte,  he 
was  endowed  with  the  martial  ardour  of  his  father,  an 
ancient  Chouan.  It  was  his  own  boast  that,  like 
Aphrodite,  he  came  from  the  waves,  and  was  nurtured 
in  the  foam  of  the  sea.     There  flowed  in  his  veins  the 


224  BARBEY  D'AUREVILLY 

blood  of  fishermen  and  corsairs,  and  he  describes  his 
uncle,  a  great  drover,  as  the  Rob  Roy  of  Cotentin. 
Such  was  the  ancestry,  in  which  he  preserved  a 
legitimate  pride,  and  whose  ferocity  of  action  he  trans- 
lated into  a  ferocity  of  style.  To  the  end  of  his  life 
he  was  loyal  to  his  country,  its  tradition  and  memories  ; 
and  the  type  of  his  choice  was  the  old  sea-wolf.  "  I 
love  these  men,"  he  wrote,  "  these  old  gulls,  dis- 
feathered  by  the  storms  which  they  have  resisted." 
And  again  he  recalls  the  translator  of  Omar,  who 
knew  no  worthier  rival  to  Tennyson  than  the  captain 
of  his  fishing-smack. 

In  after  years  he  enveloped  his  childhood  in  an 
atmosphere  of  romance,  not  unbecoming  one  whose 
whole  existence  was  a  magnificent  and  troubled 
dream.  To  his  imagination  his  father's  house  wore 
a  stern,  Jansenist  aspect.  His  education  was  entrusted, 
he  would  declare,  to  a  grave,  fantastic  Abbe,  while 
horsemanship  and  the  sword  were  among  his  earliest 
accomplishments.  To  foster  his  skill  his  father 
would  place  a  louis  on  the  saddle,  and  the  huh 
was  his  if  he  leapt  over  the  horse's  back  without 
dislodging  it.  But  an  end  soon  came  to  this  amiable 
ease,  and  his  father,  who  hated  Paris  with  a  hatred  as 
keen  as  his  son's  love  of  Normandy,  sent  him  to  Caen 
to  study  law — to  Caen,  where  he  watched  the  decline 
of  Brummel  and  which  he  afterwards  described  with 
the  tact  of  sympathy  in  his  Memorandum. 

An  inveterate  warrior,  he  could  not  long  remain  on 
terms  of  amity  with  that  other  warrior,  his  father  :  at 


BARBEY  D'AUREVILLY  225 

seventeen  the  breach  was  complete,  and,  forced  to 
sacrifice  his  ideal  of  splendid  leisure,  Barbey  d'Aurevilly 
presently  sought  Paris  and  the  combat  of  letters.  The 
combat  once  engaged,  he  fought  to  the  end.  The 
greatest  men,  he  held  with  his  Norman  pertinacity, 
are  those  that  yield  last ;  and  he  retired,  at  death,  from 
the  unequal  battle,  without  surrendering  an  inch  of 
ground.  He  wrote  a  series  of  incomparable  romances, 
which,  in  their  rapidity  of  thought  and  style,  suggest 
the  flash  of  the  foil,  and  into  every  one  of  which  he 
threw  himself  and  his  prejudices.  He  contributed  to 
the  journals,  which  he  hated,  and  which  he  once 
called  "the  railroads  of  falsehood,"  without  committing 
a  single  act  of  disloyalty  to  his  inflexible  ideals.  He 
fought,  pen  in  hand,  against  what  he  believed  the 
follies  and  vulgarities  of  the  age,  and,  since  he  was  a 
solitary  conservative  among  the  devotees  of  progress 
and  revolution,  he  fought  alone. 

It  is  this  fight  which  is  the  true  history  of 
his  life.  Apart  from  his  intellect  and  ambition, 
lie  engaged  in  no  enterprise.  He  did  not  travel,  for 
the  hustling  of  railroads  and  of  chance  companions 
annoyed  him.  "There  is  something  democratic 
in  travelling,"  lie  said,  "a  secret  love  of  majorities, 
which  should  be  despised."  And  though  there  arc 
others  to  whom  a  solitary  voyage  is  the  sternest 
seclusion,  lie  was  sincere  in  his  opinion  and  stayed 
at  home.  But  if  he  has  no  adventures  to  record, 
he  reveals  again  and  again  in  a  parenthesis  the 
tastes  which    help    an    appreciation    of   his  character. 

p 


226  BARBEY  D'AUREVILLY 

With  the  instinct  of  an  artist  he  hated  mountains. 
"  Am  I  descended  of  the  Titans,"  he  asked,  "  upon 
whom  they  were  hurled  ?  "  And  above  all  sounds  he 
loved  the  music  of  bells.  "The  voices  of  bronze," 
said  he,  "do  not  change  like  the  voices  of  men." 
One  single  episode,  which  reveals  his  inherited  dispo- 
sition, is  still  memorable.  When  U Ensorcelee  was 
published,  his  father  recalled  him  in  two  words : 
"  Revenez,  Monsieur."  And  you  know  not  which 
to  admire  the  more,  the  grandeur  of  the  father  or  the 
pride  of  the  exiled  son. 

He  came  to  a  Paris  agog  with  the  Romantic  Move- 
ment ;  yet  to  him  the  Romantic  Movement  said 
nothing.  He  was  alone  in  a  hostile  world  with  his 
dreams  of  the  past,  and  he  could  not  contemplate  the 
universal  innovation  without  horror.  On  all  sides  he 
saw  desolation  and  decay.  The  death  of  politeness 
sensibly  afflicted  him,  to  whom  politeness  was  not 
only  the  supreme  elegance  but  the  trustiest  weapon  of 
life.  "Of  what  use  is  it,"  he  asked,  "in  this  reasonable 
and  utilitarian  age  ? "  Time  was,  it  seemed,  the  best  rod 
to  keep  fools  at  a  distance — a  rod  that  spared  you  the 
trouble  of  striking.  But  it  was  lost  in  the  prevailing 
insolence,  lost  with  dancing,  which  was  degraded  to 
the  polka,  with  horsemanship,  which  was  mere  jockey- 
dom — "the  monkey  on  horseback" — with  fencing, 
which  had  degenerated  into  the  art  of  giving  blows. 

Deploring  thus  the  decadence  of  manners,  he  found  a 
yet  worse  terror  in  politics.  He  saw  encroaching  "  the 
boundless  folly  of  universal   suffrage,"   and  was  con- 


BARBEY  D'AUREVILLY  227 

vinced  that  had  Judas  been  alive  to-day  he  would  have 
been  a  minister.  Of  equality  he  had  as  fierce  a  horror 
as  Carlyle,  and  yet  knew  its  inevitableness.  "Equality 
in  vice,"  he  said,  "  makes  speedier  progress  than 
equality  in  politics,  which  advances  well  enough. 
Where  in  the  world  shall  we  end  ? ':  And  already  he 
foresaw — in  1847 — that  terrific  uniformity,  misbegotten 
child  of  Democracy,  which  should  suppress  costume  as 
vainglorious,  and  convert  mankind  into  a  brood  of 
indistinguishable  vermin.  Hating  the  Age  of  Lead, 
he  was  the  resolute  champion  of  "  great  men."  He 
believed  only  in  what  was  rare  :  great  men,  great  wit, 
great  character.  "  The  highest  praise,"  he  wrote, 
"  that  you  can  give  to  a  diamond  is  to  say  that  it  is 
alone,"  and  it  was  this  devotion  to  the  noble  and  dis- 
tinguished which  shaped  his  opinions  and  controlled 
his  life.  For  him,  then,  there  was  no  resource  but 
battle  :  wherefore  he  unsheathed  his  pen,  fought  with 
fury,  and  never  outstepped  in  the  bitterest  combat  that 
boundary  of  convention  which  it  was  his  contemporaries' 
habit  to  transgress. 

He  opposed  the  Radicals  with  a  confirmed  hatred  ; 
and,  being  a  Catholic  in  the  world  of  sceptics,  he  was 
set  aside  by  the  undiscerning  as  a  farceur.  His  sense 
of  logic  induced  him  to  approve  the  Spanish  Inquisi- 
tion, and  to  applaud  his  country  for  the  murder  of  the 
Huguenots.  Yet,  after  all,  it  was  only  the  other  side 
of  the  medal,  and  far  more  dignified  than  the  "  free- 
thinker's" smug  delight  in  the  triumph  of  his  open 
mind.      He  contemned   the  very  memory  of  Luther, 


228  BARBEY  D'AUREVILLY 

and  it  was  his  constant  regret  that  that  Reformer  was 
not  burnt,  instead  of  his  books.  His  criticism,  then,  is 
too  deeply  preoccupied  with  self  to  be  valuable,  but  its 
prejudice  makes  it  the  more  interesting.  For,  if  it 
puts  the  victim  in  a  false  light,  it  reveals  Barbey 
d'Aurevilly  in  all  his  brilliant  fantasy,  and  becomes  in 
a  sense  creative.  His  decisions  proceed  from  false 
premises,  carried  to  extravagant  conclusions.  He  was 
never  capable  of  isolating  the  art  of  literature  from  his 
manifold  creeds  and  superstitions.  A  poet  who  did 
not  agree  with  him  upon  a  question  of  politics  was  no 
poet  at  all,  and  he  was  prepared  to  riddle  him  through 
and  through  with  the  sharpest  of  swords  dipped  in 
the  bitterest  of  acids.  But  he  directed  his  campaign 
with  so  obvious  a  sincerity,  with  so  nonchalant  a 
disregard  for  the  views  of  the  other  side,  that  even  his 
enemies  smiled  at  the  onslaught,  while  they  recognised 
the  honourable  and  courageous  talent  which  inspired  it. 
For  he  was  not  of  those  who  conceal  their  opinions 
for  the  sake  of  a  shuffling  amiability,  and  his  mordant 
wit  gave  him  a  palpable  advantage  in  the  many  con- 
troversies wherein  he  was  engaged.  He  judged  rather 
by  intuition  than  by  argument,  and  he  was  quicker  to 
declare  his  taste  than  to  explain  it.  In  brief,  he  was 
not  endowed  with  the  critical  spirit,  and  therefore  his 
criticisms  have  outlived  half  a  library  of  painful 
analyses.  He  cared  neither  to  weigh  rival  medio- 
crities in  the  balance,  nor  to  establish  his  predilection 
upon  an  everlasting  foundation.  It  was  combat  that 
he  loved,  and  if  he  were  sometimes  a  rash  judge,  he 


BARBEY  D'AUREVILLY  229 

was  always  a  brilliant  advocate.  Thus  he  ridiculed 
Renan,  he  despised  Michelet,  he  hated  Victor  Hugo, 
whose  {Mherables  gave  his  polished  invective  its  finest 
opportunity.  And  one  and  all  have  triumphed  over 
the  attack.  But  the  critic  was  as  incapable  of  uproot- 
ing his  prejudice  as  of  changing  his  faith,  and  at  least 
he  was  guiltless  of  falsifying  his  impressions. 

Moreover,  he  was  a  fine  scholar,  profoundly  versed  in 
many  languages.  His  Norman  blood  gave  him  a  keen 
sympathy  with  English  literature,  which  he  read  with 
a  closer  insight  than  any  of  his  countrymen.  His 
admiration  of  Shakespeare  was  loyal  and  discerning  ; 
while  alone  of  his  generation  he  had  a  sane  apprecia- 
tion of  Byron's  poetry  and  temperament.  For  the 
Germans,  if  you  except  Heine,  he  cherished  a  frank 
antipathy.  "  They  do  not  write  books,"  he  said  ; 
"they  only  prepare  them."  And  where  will  you  find 
a  briefer  definition  of  the  Teutonic  talent  ?  But 
what  he  most  urgently  demanded  of  literature  was 
distinction  :  imagination  and  fancy  were  as  nothing 
to  him  without  the  tact  of  selection,  without  the 
perfect  architecture  of  phrase.  And  like  all  those  to 
whom  the  battle  is  a  necessity,  he  championed  his 
heroes  as  vigorously  as  he  attacked  his  foes.  The 
men  whose  superiority  won  his  esteem  were  incapable 
of  wrong.  Even  when  they  were  deceived,  they 
overtopped  the  rest  of  the  world,  for  their  vision  was 
more  false,  and  their  fault  more  splendid,  than  the 
\  ision  and  virtue  of  pigmies.  Hence,  also,  said  he, 
with    excellent    understanding    they    must    necessarily 


230  BARBEY  D'AUREVILLY 

appear  spiteful,  since  their  implacable  eye  discovers 
folly  and  vice  invisible  to  the  less  highly  gifted. 
And  what  he  said  of  others  may  be  said,  with  double 
truth,  of  himself. 

He  tilted  at  windmills,  but  at  windmills  which 
often  demanded  demolition,  and  his  age,  had  it  cared 
to  understand  him,  would  have  recognised  a  Don 
Quixote,  inspired  to  sanity.  But  his  age  did  not 
understand  him,  and  he  was  far  too  proud  to  supply 
the  key  to  his  intelligibility.  He  lived  his  own  life  in 
the  remote  fastnesses  of  the  Rue  de  Sevres,  in  a  vain 
solitude.  He  would  imitate  the  ambition  of  the 
Persian  kings,  and  enjoy  the  majesty  of  the  invisible. 
It  was  not  for  him  to  seek  a  cheap  romance  at  the 
edge  of  an  Italian  lake.  Paris  and  his  own  province 
gave  him  all  that  he  lacked.  If  he  could  not  realise 
his  own  ideal  of  splendour,  yet  he  could  dream  it. 
And  so  he  created  out  of  the  poor  materials  at  his 
hand  a  regal  magnificence,  and  living  in  a  world  of 
ideas  glorified  his  modest  apartment  into  a  Venetian 
palace. 

His  aspect  was  worthy  his  ambition  ;  the  martial 
insolence  of  his  bearing  was  mitigated  by  the  keen, 
bitter  refinement  of  the  inexorable  artist.  The 
handsome  features,  depicted  in  his  portraits,  display 
that  nobility,  which  is  Norman  and  aristocratic, 
transformed  by  the  vague  reflectiveness  of  the  poet. 
The  embarrassment  of  poverty  never  persuaded  him 
to  forego  the  hope  of  wealth  and  splendour,  nor  could 
he  regard  himself  in  other  than  a  grandiose  environ- 


BARBEY  D'AUREVILLY  231 

ment.  The  pride  and  aristocracy  of  his  sentiments 
set  him  above  the  trivial  annoyances  of  the  moment. 
Were  he  in  debt,  he  compelled  his  creditors  to 
admiration,  and  bestowed  upon  them  a  friendly 
patronage,  which  made  light  of  obligations.  He 
would  rather  dine  meagrely  at  the  Maison  Doree  than 
gorge  in  a  tavern,  which  would  have  disgusted  his 
refinement  ;  and  Rumour  is  busy  concerning  the 
demands  made  upon  his  purse  by  the  costly  cutlets 
which  his  noble  vanity  compelled  him  to  eat  in  fitting 
company. 

His  costume,  too,  was  remarkable  and  his  own. 
Hating  the  colourlessness  of  modern  life,  he  adopted 
the  guise  of  his  youth,  whereto  he  always  remained 
faithful.  His  trousers  of  grey-pearl  or  white  are 
a  part  of  folk-lore,  and  the  full-skirted,  tight-waisted 
frock-coat  has  been  celebrated  by  Goncourt  and  a 
hundred  others.  Such  was  the  fashion  of  his  attire, 
adopted  with  deliberation  and  worn  without  the 
smallest  suspicion  of  false  conceit.  It  was  as  intimate 
a  part  of  himself  as  his  Catholicism  or  his  inexorable 
contempt  of  all  Republics.  And  if  for  seventy  years 
he  never  changed  it,  so,  too,  he  preserved  his  opinions 
inalterable.  By  temperament  a  soldier  and  a  nobleman, 
he  should  have  controlled  limitless  wealth,  and  been 
given  a  constant  opportunity  of  honourable  display. 
But  destiny  opposed  his  temperament,  and  it  is 
to  his  lasting  glory  that  not  even  destiny  compelled 
submission.  Age  might  have  touched  the  seams  of 
his  coat,  yet  he  wore  it  with  a  courage  and  a  vanity 


232  BARBEY  D'AUREVILLY 

which  the  longest  purse  and  the  costliest  tailor  were 
insufficient  to  impart. 

Knowing  his  own  foibles,  he  reverenced  the  foibles 
of  others.  "I  have  never  hated,"  said  he,  "a  spice 
of  foppery  in  a  man  when  lack  of  wit  does  not 
compromise  him,"  and  it  was  one  of  his  dreams 
to  write  a  treatise  on  the  follies  of  great  men. 
That  lack  of  wit  never  compromised  him  needs  not 
to  be  said,  and  it  was  his  triumph  to  have  brought  a 
flash  of  colour  into  a  life  which  circumstances  might 
have  condemned  to  dulness.  Whatever  was  his  must 
be  exclusive  and  apart.  His  manuscripts,  says  an 
enthusiast,  were  illuminated  like  missals ;  his  hand- 
writing was  as  fine  as  Richelieu's,  and  it  was  his 
amiable  whim  to  write  his  romance  in  inks  of  different 
colour,  which  might  respond  to  his  fancy  or  to  the 
character  of  the  work. 

"I  have  seen  Brummel  mad  and  D'Orsay  dying," 
he  once  wrote  with  a  certain  pride ;  and  it  is  his 
peculiar  glory  to  have  written  the  epic  of  Dandyism 
and  of  Brummel.  This  masterpiece  is  more  intimately 
his  own  than  the  best  of  his  romances,  the  fiercest  of 
his  criticisms.  For  not  only  in  his  life,  but  in  his  art, 
dandyism  was  a  constant  obsession.  Again  and  again 
he  recurs  to  his  favourite  theme,  and  this  immortal 
treatise  is  the  best  commentary  on  his  works  as  on  his 
career.  Dandyism  he  defines  as  the  fruit  of  vanity, 
but  of  vanity  which  has  naught  to  do  with  the  con- 
quest of  women.  And  he  esteems  it  the  exclusive 
product     of    England,    and     of    England     under    the 


BARBEY  D'AUREVILLY  233 

Regency.  The  word  is  as  foreign  to  France  as  that 
which  it  expresses,  and  France,  he  thinks,  will  never 
share  this  vanity  with  England.  "  We  may  reflect 
all  colours,  but  the  chameleon  cannot  reflect  white, 
and  white,  for  peoples,  is  the  force  of  their  originality." 
And  again  :  "  It  is  the  force  of  English  originality 
impressing  itself  upon  human  vanity — that  vanity 
anchored  even  to  the  heart  of  scullions,  compared  to 
which  the  contempt  of  Pascal  is  but  a  blind  insolence 
— which  produces  that  which  is  called  Dandyism." 

And  thereafter  he  analyses  the  quality  with  a  fineness 
of  perception  and  closeness  of  argument  which  are 
incomparable.  Richelieu  was  not  a  dandy,  since  his 
prowess  in  the  field,  his  astuteness  in  the  council, 
modified  his  vanity.  Even  Pascal,  his  favourite 
Pascal,  was  separated  by  his  qualities  from  the  majesty 
of  Brummel.  The  nearest  rival  to  the  Englishman's 
throne  is  the  Prince  de  Kaunitz,  whose  "majestic 
frivolity  and  fierce  egotism"  almost  equalled  Brummel's, 
and  who  boasted  that  he  had  no  friend.  But  even 
Kaunitz  knew  moments  of  failure.  He  was  not  a 
dandy,  says  Barbey  d'Aurevilly,  when  he  wore  a 
corset  of  satin  ;  but  he  was  a  dandy  when,  to  give  his 
hair  the  exact  shade,  he  walked  through  a  suite  of 
rooms,  whose  length  and  number  he  had  reckoned, 
while  valets,  armed  with  powder-puffs,  sprinkled  him 
as  he  passed.  No,  all  fail  to  fit  the  definition  save 
Brummel  himself;  and  "takeaway  the  dandy  from 
him,  and  what  remains  ?" 

Moreover,    Barbey    d'Aurevilly    frees    his    favourite 


234  BARBEY  D'AUREVILLY 

quality  from  many  a  misapprehension.  "  You  can  be  a 
dandy  in  a  ragged  coat,"  he  says  ;  "  it  is  not  the  coat 
which  walks  alone!  it  is  a  certain  manner  of  wearing  it 
which  makes  the  dandy."  And  here  you  might  be 
persuaded  to  believe  the  panegyrist  himself  first  cousin 
of  Brummel.  For  if  ever  a  man  knew  how  to  glorify  a 
coat  by  the  noble  wearing  of  it,  it  was  he.  But  you 
remember  that  the  vanity  of  apparel  and  aspect  was 
never  sufficient  for  him.  He  was  a  fighter,  a  philo- 
sopher, a  creator  of  fantastic  types,  and  if  for  a 
moment  we  pronounced  him  a  dandy,  we  must  pro- 
nounce him  a  dandy  modified  by  a  dozen  accomplish- 
ments. Yet  he,  too,  like  Brummel,  glorified  a  fashion, 
and  if  his  capacity  was  not  limited  "  to  the  brutal 
art  of  putting  on  a  cravat,"  it  is  certain  that  under 
other  circumstances  and  with  a  restricted  talent  he 
might  have  attained  what  he  proclaims  impossible,  and 
acclimatised  in  France  that  dandyism  which  Johnson's 
Dictionary  knew  not,  and  which  needed  for  its 
invention  the  special  circumstances  of  the  Regency. 

At  any  rate  it  is  his  treatise,  Du  Dandysme  et  de 
Georges  <Brummel^  which  best  defines  the  talent  of 
Barbey  d'Aurevilly.  It  bears  to  his  life  the  same 
relation  which  Vathek  bore  to  the  career  of  Beckford. 
It  is  echoed  in  his  romances,  it  influences  his  criticism. 
The  least  suspicion  of  the  dandy  awakens  all  his 
enthusiasm  ;  and,  though  he  would  have  refused  the 
title  to  Lord  Byron,  you  are  sure  that  a  part  of  his 
admiration  for  the  master  of  Newstead  Abbey  was 
reserved    for  the   Man  about  Town,   for    the    bosom 


BARBEY  D'AUREVILLY  235 

friend  of  Scrope  Davies,  for  the  extravagant  who 
vowed  he  would  rather  be  Brummel  than  Napoleon. 
Thus,  also,  he  reverenced  D'Orsay,  whose  nature  he 
finds  far  ampler  and  more  human  than  the  dandyism 
of  Brummel.  And  yet  in  his  own  despite  it  is 
D'Orsay  the  dandy  which  claims  his  enthusiasm. 
This  "  King  of  amiable  benevolence "  would  have 
smiled  in  vain  upon  the  world  ;  in  vain  would  he  have 
thrown  his  napkin  at  the  officer  who  spoke  evil  of  the 
Virgin  Mary,  and  fastened  a  quarrel  upon  him  because 
he  would  not  have  a  woman  insulted  in  his  presence  ; 
in  vain  would  he  have  displayed  his  amazing  sympathy  ; 
Barbey  d'Aurevilly  at  least  would  have  withheld  his 
worship,  had  there  not  been  added  to  his  benevolence 
the  talent  of  fashion,  the  genius  even  of  tying  a 
cravat. 

These  then  were  Barbey  d'Aurevilly's  heroes,  Byron 
and  D'Orsay,  Pascal,  who  drove  six  horses  in  his 
carriage,  and  Joseph  de  Maistre.  Thus  you  may 
measure  the  taste  of  a  keen  critic  and  finished  gentle- 
man, to  whom  combat  was  a  necessity  and  honour 
was  inevitable,  who  never  wrote  a  mean  line,  and  who 
never  descended  for  an  instant  from  his  lofty  ideal  of 
conservative  and  Catholic  aristocracy.  So  much  you 
may  learn  from  his  books  and  his  predilections.  You 
may  reconstruct  from  legend  or  history  the  outward 
habit  of  his  life  and  the  costume  which  made  him 
famous.  But  his  greatest  gift  died  with  him  :  his 
brilliant  conversation,  the  only  gift  for  which  he 
would   have   sacrificed   all.     Those   that  have  listened 


236  BARBEY  D'AUREVILLY 

to  it  agree  in  admiration,  yet  none  have  been  able  to 
define  its  excellences,  to  give  the  most  distant  echo  of 
its  brilliant  eloquence.  He  was  a  talker,  says  Rumour, 
perfect  in  style,  quick  in  wit,  various  in  colour, 
quenchless  in  gaiety,  and  his  talk  is  varnished  with  the 
elegances  he  loved  so  well,  and  the  forlorn  hopes  of 
faith  and  fancy  he  so  gallantly  led.  Yet  he  has  won 
the  fate  which  before  all  he  desired.  It  was  his  ideal 
to  be  a  man  of  genius,  and  unknown.  His  works 
remain  to  attest  his  genius,  and  neither  in  life  nor 
after  death  was  he  perplexed  by  the  admiration  of  the 
crowd. 


DISRAELI    THE    YOUNGER 


DISRAELI    THE  YOUNGER 


A  SLENDER  figure,  elegantly  poised  in  an 
attitude  which  betokens  at  once  ambition  and 
security.  His  right  elbow  rests  lightly  on  the  chimney- 
piece,  and  the  tips  of  his  delicate  jewelled  fingers  are 
free  to  coquet  with  the  glossy  ringlets  which  crown  a 
pensive  brow.  The  rolled  collar  of  his  coat  is  of 
to-morrow's  fashion,  and  an  open  waistcoat  reveals  a 
cascade  of  scarf  magnificently  glorified  by  brooch 
and  chain.  His  legs  are  nonchalantly  crossed  and 
encased  in  creaseless  trousers,  sternly  strapped  beneath 
a  pair  of  dainty  pumps.  A  Turkish  chibouque  thrown 
upon  a  pillowed  divan  symbolises  the  grand  tour  and  a 
half-concealed  love  of  tobacco  ;  while  the  air  of  idle- 
luxury  is  tempered  by  the  beauty  of  the  oval  face,  and 
by  the  imaginative  eyes,  fixed  with  bold  unconcern 
upon  a  triumphant  future  and  the  mysterious  East. 
Thus  is  Disraeli  the  Younger  pictured  by  Maclisc  ; 
thus  did  he  appear  to  the  intimates  of  his  romantic 
youth. 

Handsome,  extravagant,  debonair,  Disraeli  the 
Younger  was  the  true-born  child  of  a  wayward, 
irresponsible  age,  which,  with   its  manifold  contradic- 


240  DISRAELI  THE  YOUNGER 

tions,  was  more  interesting  than  distinguished,  more 
cultured  than  heroic.  It  was,  indeed,  a  time  of 
transition,  which  bridged  the  distance  between  the 
hard  disdain  of  the  Regency  and  the  vapid  enthusiasm 
of  our  Early  Victorians.  But  the  old  brutality  was 
not  forgotten,  and  the  Prize  Ring  flourished  at  the 
Keepsake's  side.  Though  a  rout  at  Almack's  was 
still  an  end  of  social  ambition,  there  were  certain 
coteries  in  Brompton  which  claimed  their  devoted 
slaves,  and  some  thought  it  more  glorious  to  sip  tea  in 
L.  E.  L.'s  parlour  than  to  flaunt  it  in  the  presence  of 
a  hundred  duchesses.  For  Byronism  had  achieved 
its  proper  result,  and  the  man  of  fashion  was  driven 
perforce  into  an  affectation  of  romance  It  was  a 
social  duty,  eagerly  discharged,  to  stand  in  attitudes, 
to  cultivate  the  curling-tongs  and  the  pomatum-pot, 
to  wear  extravagant,  inharmonious  clothes,  to  flatter 
blue-stockings,  and  to  end  your  careless  sentences  with 
"  and  all  that."  Indeed,  'twas  the  strangest  of  mixtures, 
this  age  of  watered  silk  and  satin  waistcoats ;  and 
while  on  the  one  hand  it  knew  not  the  roystering 
dissipation  of  Carlton  House,  on  the  other  it  had  not 
yet  learnt  to  simper  and  be  afraid.  Certain  heroes 
there  were,  such  as  the  Marquis  of  Hertford,  to  keep 
alive  the  ancient  tradition  ;  but  Brummel  was  in  exile, 
and  there  was  an  open  revolt  against  his  severe,  refining 
influence. 

Doubtless  the  great  Dandy  cherished  an  extravagant 
taste  in  snuff-boxes ;  but  the  first  article  of  his 
creed    was   a   scrupulous   simplicity    of  attire,    which 


DISRAELI  THE  YOUNGER  241 

Scrope  Davies  and  the  more  intelligent  of  his  pupils 
faithfully  observed.  And  when  the  fourth  William  sat 
upon  the  throne  there  invaded  with  softened  manners 
an  extravagance  of  taste.  The  world,  tired  of  violent 
debauchery,  chose  its  vices  with  a  better  circumspec- 
tion ;  but,  equally  tired  of  expensive  simplicity,  it 
exercised  little  tact  in  the  selection  of  its  wine  or  its 
wardrobe.  It  became  lackadaisical,  tired,  fantastic. 
"  I  rather  like  bad  wine,"  says  Mountchesney  in 
"Sybil,"  "one  gets  so  bored  with  good  wine" — a 
characteristic  confession  of  weakness  which  no  Dandy 
with  an  essential  pride  in  excellence  would  have  dared 
to  make.  It  was  the  boast  of  the  Brummels  that  they 
were  surprised  at  nothing  ;  their  successors  cheapened 
the  faculty  of  admiration,  until  they  wondered  not 
only  at  the  verse  of  Bulwer  but  at  the  prose  of  Lady 
Blessington.  But  at  last  the  cold  impassibility  was 
dead  :  dead  also  were  the  pitiless  contempt  and  the 
hard  desire  of  perfection  which  marked  the  golden  age 
of  dandyism.  No  longer  was  it  bad  form  to  display 
sentiment  or  to  confess  an  interest  in  polite  literature, 
while  a  sonnet  signed  with  a  title  was  sure  of  a  hearing 
in  the  most  exclusive  drawing-room. 

So  by  degrees  elegance  ceased  to  be  worshipped  for  its 
own  sake  ;  the  barrier  was  broken  that  once  separated 
fashion  from  culture ;  while  Manchester  and  the  Reform 
Bill  created  a  tolerant  curiosity,  unknown  before,  which 
opened  the  door  to  the  most  bizarre  of  talents,  to  the 
most  reckless  of  opinions.  In  truth,  where  taste  and 
repartee  had  once  been  supreme,  a  half-awakened  soul 

Q 


242  DISRAELI  THE  YOUNGER 

began  to  reign,  and  the  courtiers,  as  if  to  prove 
themselves  superior  to  novel  sensations  and  young 
enthusiasms,  dressed  themselves  with  unwonted  fancy 
and  extravagance.  The  bloods  of  the  town  were 
arrayed  in  such  finery  as  would  have  shocked  the 
chaster  refinement  of  Brummel.  There  are  vague 
rumours  of  green  trousers  and  black  satin  shirts, 
while  velvet  coats  gave  an  air  of  sumptuous  sobriety 
to  the  Opera  House.  No  wonder  the  Marquis  of 
Hertford,  who  had  witnessed  the  departed  glory  of  the 
Regency,  took  refuge  from  the  changing  manners  in 
Paris  or  Rome  ;  but,  in  spite  of  defection,  all  was  not 
lost,  and  London  was  saved  from  vulgarity  by  the 
surpassing  genius  of  Alfred  D'Orsay. 

Now  Alfred  D'Orsay  rivalled  the  Dandies  in 
elegance  ;  in  all  other  respects  he  was  their  antithesis. 
His  magnificence  was  only  less  than  Brummel's  own 
because  it  lacked  that  touch  of  delicacy  and  restraint 
which  made  the  greatest  of  the  Georges  an  exemplar 
for  all  time.  While  Brummel  was  wont  to  walk  down 
St.  James's  unnoticed,  D'Orsay  could  not  leave  Gore 
House  without  making  an  immediate  and  brilliant 
sensation.  His  satin-lined  coat  was  thrown  as  far 
back  as  possible,  his  "  breastplate  of  starched  cambric  " 
was  broader  and  more  luminous  than  any  other  in 
town ;  his  boot  was  the  smallest  and  most  highly 
polished  that  ever  was  seen  upon  the  foot  of  man  ;  his 
hat  was  set  with  a  superb  jauntiness  over  an  array  of 
curls  which  rivalled  the  beard  of  an  Assyrian  bull  ;  his 
attitude  and   gestures  were  the  last  expression  of  an 


DISRAELI  THE  YOUNGER  243 

arrogance   wherein  there   was   no   malice,   of  a   pride 
wherein  there  was  no  disdain. 

But    it    is    only    at    one    point    that    he    challenges 
comparison  with  Brummel,  his  manifest  superior  in  the 
art  of  adornment.     In  all  other  aspects  he  stands  apart. 
He  knew  nothing  of  the  frigid  heartlessness,  the  narrow 
contempt,   the   "majestic    frivolity,"    which  were  the 
essence  of  Brummel's  genius.     For  while  the  Dandy 
occupied  but  one  corner  of  human  activity,  D'Orsay 
put  no  restraint  upon  either  his  heart  or  his  head.     He 
was  a  man  of  tact  and  feeling,  always  gay,  always  fresh, 
always  sympathetic.     His  interests  were  as  wide  as  his 
intelligence  ;  he  was  as  fine  a  judge  of  horseflesh  as  of 
a  dinner  ;  an  instinctive  appreciation  of  literature  and 
art  endeared  him  to  the  dilettanti  ;  and  a  peculiar  skill 
of  intimacy  turned  new  acquaintances  into  old  friends. 
Above  all,  he  was  agreeable  and  enchanting,  a  fairy- 
prince,  whose  delight  it  was  to  extricate  the  luckless 
from  those  pitfalls  which  a  profound  knowledge  of  the 
world  had  taught  him  to  avoid.     An    amiable,  loyal, 
pleasure-loving  hero,  he  shared  with  Lady  Blessington 
the  throne  of  Gore  House,  and  dominated  for  twenty 
years  that  world  of  fashion  which  vainly  limped  after 
his   perfections.     Such   as   he   was   his   contemporaries 
aspired   to   be  ;   and,   strangely   enough,   this  eloquent 
Frenchman  remains  the  symbol  of  that  age  when  men 
wore  Nugee  coats   and   drank  Badminton,  and  when 
women  bared  their  shoulders  and  sang  tearful  ditties  to 
the  music  of  the  harp. 

It   was  this   world,   then,   that    the  young   Disraeli 


244  DISRAELI  THE  YOUNGER 

entered  with  the  highest  credentials  of  breeding  and 
intelligence,   and   under  the   brilliant  auspices   of  the 
Count    himself,   whose    generosity    he    repaid    by    the 
sketch  of  Mirabel,  as  pretty  a  gentleman  as  ever  un- 
ravelled the  plot  of  a  love-story.     Few  men  have  made 
a  more  splendid  appearance  on  the  stage.     His  swift 
sword  opened  the  oyster  at  the  first  encounter,  and 
before  the  world  knew  his  name  he  was  a  leader  of 
society.     His  progress  was  like  a  fairy  tale,  or  a  chapter 
from  Balzac,  which  you  cannot  read  without  a  spirited 
enthusiasm.     He  was  young,  he  was  handsome,  he  was 
a  fop,  he  had  written  a  book,  and  his  glory  was  almost 
equal  to  his  unparalleled  ambition.     Strange  stories  were 
told  of  this  sallow-faced   youth,  whose  black  ringlets 
were  ridiculed  by  the  envious,  and  the  fashion  of  whose 
coat    is    still    fabulous.     But    his    tasselled  ivory  cane, 
inlaid  with  gold,  his  flower-embroidered  waistcoat,  his 
chains   unnumbered,  his    priceless    ruffles — even  these 
were  less  remarkable  than  his  mysterious  silences,  his 
flashes  of  eloquence,  and  the  bitter  contempt  which  he 
cherished  for  his  fellows. 

No  wonder  the  world  eagerly  acknowledged  his 
superiority  ;  no  wonder  the  chariot  of  his  glory 
was  never  stayed.  What  a  career  was  his  !  What 
an  achievement  in  fascination  !  Truly  he  emptied 
the  bowl  of  life,  and  found  no  poison  in  the 
wine.  He  was  witty,  accomplished,  glorious,  and 
his  table  was  littered  with  letters  ;  and  London 
was  at  his  feet.  And  he — he  accepted  the  homage 
with  a  grave  and  grateful  smile,  and  he  wandered  from 


DISRAELI  THE  YOUNGER  245 

the  house  of  one  duchess  to  the  house  of  another,  proud 
in  the  conviction  that  he  brought  to  the  smartest  party 
far  more  than  it  could  yield  him.  Once  upon  a  time 
he  was  mobbed  with  Bulwer  at  a  ball,  and  doubtless  he 
took  his  hustling  in  the  most  complaisant  of  humours. 
Another  night  he  came  late  to  dinner  at  Sir  Robert 
Peel's,  and  found  six  stealthy  politicians  eating  in 
silence.  Instantly  he  flung  an  epigram  across  the 
table,  dispelled  the  gravity,  and  wrung  a  smile  from 
Peel  himself. 

When  the  influenza  attacked  London,  he  met  it 
with  the  smartest  remedies  and  in  the  best  company. 
"  D'Orsay  and  I,"  he  wrote,  "  defy  the  disorder  with 
a  first-rate  cook,  a  generous  diet,  and  medicated 
vapour-baths."  To-day  he  dines  with  Chandos, 
the  only  man  in  the  room  not  a  member  of  Parlia- 
ment ;  to-morrow  he  sits  at  another  ducal  table,  proud 
in  the  reflection  that  no  commoners  are  present 
save  himself  and  Sir  William  Fremantle.  As  the 
season  declines,  he  attends  water-parties,  devised  in  the 
sentimental  taste  of  the  time.  The  guests  embarked 
at  five  o'clock,  "  the  heavens  very  favourable,  sang  all 
the  way,  wandered  in  beautiful  gardens  worthy  of  Paul 
Veronese,  full  not  only  of  flowers,  but  fountains  and 
parroqucts." 

What  a  picture  it  is — the  titled  exquisites  dressed 
a  little  beyond  the  limits  of  good  taste  ami  floating 
down  the  Thames  to  the  music  of  a  luxurious 
sentimentality  !  It  was  drawn  but  sixty  years  ago, 
yet  it  seems  prehistoric,  or  if,  indeed,  it  must  belong  to 


246  DISRAELI  THE  YOUNGER 

time  and  space,  it  should  suggest  that  no  man's  land 
of  ardour  and  elegance  in  which  is  laid  the  scene  of 
"Henrietta  Temple."  And  Disraeli  triumphed  over 
the  envy  of  men  and  the  ridicule  of  women.  True, 
one  murmured  that  he  looked  as  though  he  were  hang- 
ing in  chains,  while  another  asked  was  he  in  training 
for  the  office  of  Lord  Mayor  ?  But  he  was  a  man 
whose  gravity  checked  impertinence,  and  as  he  con- 
fesses himself,  "he  made  his  way  easily  in  the  highest 
set,  where  they  like  to  admire  and  be  amused."  And 
doubtless  they  did  admire  and  were  amused,  until  this 
exquisite  had  no  enemies  save  the  second-rate,  and 
counted  among  his  champions  the  most  beautiful 
women  and  the  greatest  statesmen  of  his  time. 

His  glory  was  no  surprise,  least  of  all  to  himself. 
He  had  entered  the  world  to  conquer,  and  the  victory 
was  his.  Nor  was  there  the  smallest  touch  of  snobbery 
in  his  choice  of  a  battlefield.  He  deemed  his  blood 
the  purest  in  Europe,  and  himself  the  equal  of  the 
most  ancient  duke.  So  that  in  deserting  his  father's 
library  for  what  he  would  have  called  "  the  saloons  of 
the  great,"  he  was  but  obeying  a  natural  and  a  modest 
instinct.  Being  a  Jew  in  all  things,  in  nothing  did 
he  prove  his  descent  so  clearly  as  in  his  love  of  splendour. 
Had  he  commanded  the  wealth  of  Contarini  Fleming, 
he,  too,  would  have  lived  in  a  "  Palladian  pile "  ;  he, 
too,  would  have  enriched  his  mansion  with  all  "the 
spoils  of  the  teeming  Orient"  ;  his  terraces  would  have 
sparkled  with  jasper,  porphyry,  and  onyx  ;  "  the  gold 
of  Afric,  the  jewels  of  Ind,  the  talismans  of  Egypt,  the 


DISRAELI  THE  YOUNGER  247 

perfumes  and  ^manuscripts  of  Persia,  the  spices  and 
gems  of  Araby" — all  those  mythical  glories  would 
have  made  his  castle  for  all  the  world  like  the  great 
Bazaar  of  Bagdad. 

The  result,  of  course,  would  have  been  opulent 
rather  than  beautiful,  for  Disraeli's  taste  was  of  his 
time,  and  took  no  thought  either  of  classic  harmony 
or  of  delicate  restraint.  Nevertheless,  he  was  possessed 
with  an  indiscriminate,  unquestioning  admiration 
of  magnificence,  which  instantly  determined  the  place 
he  should  occupy  in  the  world.  Above  all  things, 
clothes  engrossed  his  fancy,  and  from  the  outset 
he  regarded  life  as  a  masquerade.  He  must  always 
be  "  dressing-up,"  as  children  say,  and  disguising  his 
origin  in  the  gorgeous  trappings  of  a  costume-shop. 
At  Malta  he  dined  with  the  officers,  now  as  an  Anda- 
lusian  brigand,  now  as  a  Greek  pirate  ;  and  though  we 
know  not  what  the  British  soldier  thought  of  his 
display,  he  himself  was  abundantly  satisfied  with  the 
effect  he  produced.  Indeed,  throughout  his  famous 
tour,  which  was  nothing  less  than  a  march  of  triumph, 
he  pondered  deeply  of  his  wardrobe,  and  not  even  the 
difficulties  of  travel  compelled  him  to  appear  in  dis- 
array. 

So  he  is  found  lamenting  that  "  the  king's  death 
is  the  destruction  of  his  dress-waistcoats "  ;  so  he 
boasts  that  a  "  handkerchief  which  he  brought  from 
Paris  is  the  most  successful  thing  he  ever  wore,  and 
universally  admired."  But  it  was  at  Gibraltar  that  he 
made  his  proudest  conquest, and  "maintained  his  repu- 


248  DISRAELI  THE  YOUNGER 

tation  of  being  a  great  judge  of  costume."  For  not 
only  did  the  fashion  of  discarding  waistcoats  in  the 
morning  reveal  the  beauty  of  his  peerless  studs,  but, 
says  he,  "  I  have  the  fame  of  being  the  first  who  ever 
passed  the  Straits  with  two  canes — a  morning  and  an 
evening  cane.  I  change  my  cane  as  the  gun  fires,  and 
hope  to  carry  them  both  on  to  Cairo.  It  is  wonderful 
the  effect  these  magical  wands  produce.  I  owe  to 
them  even  more  attention  than  to  being  the  supposed 
author  of — what  is  it  ? — I  forget  !  " 

That  is  a  touch  of  the  true  Disraeli  !  He  forgot  the 
title  of  his  book  ;  he  remembered  the  proper  moment 
to  change  his  cane  ;  and  it  was  this  pleasant  mixture 
of  carefulness  and  nonchalance  which  gave  him  his 
place  in  the  world.  It  was  a  pose,  of  course  ;  but 
success  itself  is  a  pose,  which  is  wholly  alien  to  the 
natural  man.  And  Disraeli  was  so  little  the  natural 
man,  that  all  his  actions  were  [the  result  of  fore- 
thought, and  all  his  poses  were  calculated  to  please 
his  set.  For  instance,  the  world  was  fatigued  with 
action,  and  here  was  Disraeli  ready  to  declare  that  he 
had  never  thrown  a  ball  in  his  life,  that  it  tired  him  to 
kill  pheasants,  that  he  was  indifferent  to  the  pleasures 
of  the  chase.  Nevertheless,  when  he  did  ride  to 
hounds,  the  spirit  of  romance  seized  him,  and, 
"  although  not  in  pink,  I  was  the  best-mounted  man 
in  the  field,  riding  an  Arabian  mare,  which  I  nearly 
killed ;  a  run  of  thirty  miles,  and  I  stopped  at 
nothing." 

That  is  a  feat  that  D'Orsay  might  have  accomplished 


DISRAELI  THE  YOUNGER  249 

every  week ;  but  it  is  unique  in  the  experience 
of  Disraeli,  and  merely  accentuated  his  habit  of 
inaction.  It  was  rather  within  the  key  of  his 
character  to  sit  resplendent  in  a  half-light,  and  to 
dash  out  sudden  from  the  gloom  with  a  brilliant 
epigram  or  a  torrent  of  eloquence.  "  I  like  silent, 
melancholy  men,"  said  Mrs.  Wyndham  Lewis,  at 
their  introduction — and  no  doubt  Disraeli  flattered 
her  taste.  For  though  his  duty  was  speech,  he  could 
be  silent  when  he  pleased — surely  the  most  difficult 
achievement,  for  eloquence  is  not  easily  chained — while 
none  of  his  intimates  ever  heard  him  laugh,  and  few 
they  were  who  saw  him  smile.  Like  the  Spanish  King, 
he  was  possessed  by  a  spirit  of  gravity,  which  in  no  way 
hindered  the  flash  of  his  scorn  or  the  ripple  of  his 
amazing  wit.  But  it  made  readily  possible  the  most 
sincere  of  all  his  poses — the  pose  of  mystery.  If  it 
were  his  ambition  to  penetrate  the  Asian  mystery,  he 
himself  was  a  mystery — Asian,  too — that  defied  pene- 
tration. When  he  seemed  a  fop,  then  was  he  most  a 
visionary,  and  it  was  always  in  the  Orient  that  he  saw 
his  visions  and  dreamed  his  dreams. 

It  is  tempting,  indeed,  to  seize  his  character  in  his 
novels,  and  perchance  there  is  something  of  himself  in 
all  his  heroes.  You  can  imagine  him  saying  with 
Vivian  Grey  that  guava  and  liqueurs  were  the  only 
refreshment  he  ever  took.  You  can  see  him  in  as 
deadly  opposition  as  Coningsby  to  the  common  creeds 
of  a  worn-out  party;  above  all,  you  recognise  in  the 
fantasies  of  Tancrcd  his  author's  own  mysticism,  and 


250  DISRAELI  THE  YOUNGER 

surely  he  is  nearer  akin  to  Lord  Montacute  than  to 
any  of  his  creations.  And  the  wandered  London  up 
and  down,  a  kind  of  unsolved  riddle.  "  What  is  he  ? " 
asked  the  world  of  fashion  after  a  certain  eminent 
personage,  and  Disraeli  was  far  too  skilful  a  tactician 
to  satisfy  an  idle  curiosity. 

But  he  was  equipped  for  the  fray  with  other  gifts 
than  melancholy  and  mysticism.  Young  in  tempera- 
ment as  well  as  in  years,  he  was  of  those  who  keep 
their  youth  not  only  in  their  own  hearts  but  in  the 
eyes  of  men  ;  and  the  author  of  "  Coningsby  "  was 
still  leading  Young  England  when  he  had  passed  his 
eighth  lustre.  And  what  may  a  man  not  do  with 
youth — youth  untouched  of  time,  the  first  and  last 
gift  of  ithe  gods  ?  Alas !  we  reckon  by  the  clumsy 
measure  of  months,  condemning  boys  because  they 
are  young  and  men  because  they  are  old,  and  forget 
that  there  are  tempers  which  the  passage  of  time 
cannot  affect.  But  Disraeli  possessed  the  great 
gift,  and  Sidonia's  panegyric  of  youth  was  doubtless 
his  own.  " '  Great  men  never  want  experience,' 
said  the  stranger ;  *  the  history  of  heroes  is  the 
history  of  youth.'"  And  Disraeli  might  have  echoed 
both  statements,  for  the  author  of  "  Vivian  Grey  "  was 
already  mature,  and  though  he  was  Prime  Minister 
for  the  first  time  at  sixty-two,  he  had  then  escaped  the 
approach  of  age. 

Next  after  youth,  it  was  the  faculty  of  displacement 
which  ensured  him  the  victory.  He  occupied  more 
space  than  lesser  men,  and  his  presence  was  sufficient 


DISRAELI  THE  YOUNGER  251 

to  dvershadow  all  competitors.  Wherever  he  went, 
he  Compelled  observation,  and  he  was  never  without 
a  field  to  exercise  his  talents.  Moreover,  by  his 
grave,  sallow  face  he  masked  an  intrepid  determination 
and  a  quiet  courage.  That  he  should  be  a  great 
man,  that  he  should  lead  the  great  world,  was 
ordained,  because  his  mind  was  set  upon  the  enterprise. 
"  We  make  our  Fortunes  and  we  call  it  Fate," 
he  said  somewhere  ;  but  assuredly  if  he  made  his 
fortune,  he  never  let  his  fate  out  of  his  own  hands. 

Moreover,  he  held  the  place  which  he  had  gained 
by  the  exercise  of  the  most  brilliant  talents.  His 
genius  of  conversation  is  legendary,  and  no  con- 
temporary was  a  match  for  the  quickness  of  his  re- 
partee and  the  ruthlessness  of  his  scorn.  Yet  how 
poor  a  record  is  there  of  his  wit  !  With  the  silence  of 
the  voice  which  instantly  hushed  the  babble  of 
common  talk  one  at  least  of  his  qualities  vanished 
irreparably.  For  his  repeated  jests  have  lost  their 
savour,  and  are  remembered  rather  for  their  effect 
than  for  themselves.  If  it  be  rare  to  encounter  a  page 
that  will  live,  it  is  impossible  to  fashion  a  mot  that 
will  win  immortality.  And  the  Disraeli  of  the 
drawing-rooms  descends  to  our  imagination  as  a 
Romantic  Movement  in  person,  a  hero,  maybe,  in  the 
vein  of  Rastignac,  whose  massy  chain  and  prodigious 
velvets  arc  infinitely  more  picturesque  than  the  red 
waistcoat  which  inaugurated  a  revolution  across  the 
Channel. 

The  most  of  men  would  have  accepted  for  a  career 


252  DISRAELI  THE  YOUNGER 

Disraeli's  triumph  in  the  world.  He  might,  indeed, 
have  succeeded  to  D'Orsay's  throne,  and  been  undis- 
puted arbiter  of  elegances.  Yet  he  was  but  a 
sojourner  in  society,  which  was  to  him  rather  a  means 
of  progress  than  a  pursuit,  and  where  he  took  his 
unquestioned  place  unquestioning  ;  nor  did  he  for  a 
moment  permit  an  organised  frivolity  to  interrupt  the 
serious  occupation  of  his  life.  For,  besides  being  a 
flaneur  and  a  mystic,  he  was  also  a  man  of  affairs,  whose 
ambition  could  only  be  checked  by  death  itself.  And 
for  this  he  has  been  called  an  adventurer,  and  an 
adventurer  he  assuredly  is  in  the  sense  that  every  one 
adventures,  be  he  duke  or  ploughman,  when  he  leaves 
his  father's  hearth.  But  the  baser  sense,  that  by  the 
wiles  of  the  upstart  he  reached  too  lofty  a  position,  is 
wholly  inadmissible. 

Who,  indeed,  should  be  a  leader  of  men  if  not 
he  ?  Born  in  a  library,  as  he  said,  and  nurtured 
on  Voltaire,  he  leaned  upon  his  father's  reputation, 
and  in  his  childhood  knew  whomsoever  he  would. 
In  education,  in  manners,  in  habit  of  the  world, 
he  was  any  man's  equal,  and  though  he  had  a 
gentlemanly  acquaintance  with  debt,  he  had  never 
known  the  sharper  twinge  of  poverty.  His  own 
sojourn  in  a  sponging-house,  and  his  salvation  by  the 
adroit  and  charming  D'Orsay,  are  described  with 
admirable  humour  in  "  Henrietta  Temple  "  ;  while  in 
Fakredeen's  mouth  he  has  put  a  panegyric  of  debts, 
"  the  dear  companions  of  my  life,"  which  was  dictated, 
doubtless,    by    a    grotesque     sincerity.       Maybe    he 


DISRAELI  THE  YOUNGER  253 

thought  as  much  of  himself  as  of  the  Emir,  when  he 
declared  that  "  among  his  creditors  he  had  disciplined 
that  diplomatic  ability  that  shall  some  day  confound 
and  control  cabinets." 

But  embarrassment  is  a  common  incident  of  life, 
and  if  Disraeli  was  familiar  with  disappointment,  and 
"  to  be  disappointed  is  to  be  young,"  he  never  was 
familiar  with  disaster,  and  he  claimed  to  play  a  part  in 
politics  without  effrontery  or  astonishment.  Indeed, 
long  before  he  asked  the  voters  of  High  Wycombe  for 
their  confidence,  he  had  been  entrusted  with  a  mission 
the  mere  memory  of  which  might  have  made  the 
fortune  of  another  man,  and  which  he  himself  recalled 
many  years  after  with  pride  and  satisfaction. 

Now  in  1825,  when  Disraeli  had  just  turned 
twenty,  John  Murray  determined  to  found  a  daily 
paper.  At  the  boy's  instigation  it  was  to  be  called 
the  "  Representative,"  and  when  the  great  Sir  Walter's 
opinion  was  asked,  who  so  apt  an  emissary  as  Disraeli 
the  Younger  ?  Here  was  his  opportunity,  and 
bravely  did  he  tackle  it.  He  set  out  for  the  North 
with  the  eager  curiosity  of  untravelled  youth,  proud 
in  the  confidence  of  an  august  publisher,  and  assured 
that  to  his  persuasion  not  even  Sir  Walter  could  be 
deaf.  He  rested  his  foot  at  York,  was  enchanted  with  the 
Minster,  and  whispered  to  Murray  that  Froissart  was  his 
companion,  "just  the  fellow  for  a  traveller's  evening." 
It  is  as  fresh  and  buoyant  a  record  as  history  has  to 
show  ;  it  reminds  you  of  Mozart  before  the  French 
King,  of  Pope  sitting  at  the  feet  of  Dryden. 


254  DISRAELI  THE  YOUNGER 

But  no  sooner  was  he  arrived  at  Chiefswood 
than  disappointment  awaited  him.  For  Lockhart, 
who  was  there  to  meet  him,  expected  the  father, 
and  not  having  the  gift  of  prophecy,  knew  not 
how  far  greater  and  more  valiant  a  man  was  the  son. 
So  that  "  everything  looked  as  black  as  possible,"  and 
the  adventure  evoked  the  very  last  of  Disraeli's  talents. 
He  talked,  he  flattered,  he  cajoled,  he  displayed  his 
perfect  cunning  of  management,  until  "  in  a  few 
hours  we  completely  understood  one  another,  and 
were  upon  the  most  intimate  terms."  Here,  indeed, 
you  perceive  that  diplomacy  in  bud  which  in  blossom 
was  to  govern  England  and  to  subdue  Europe. 
Between  Disraeli  and  Lockhart  there  could  not  have 
been  the  link  of  lasting  sympathy.  But  for  the 
moment  it  was  Disraeli's  single-minded  endeavour  to 
gain  his  opponent's  intimacy,  and  it  is  not  surprising 
that  he  won  an  easy  victory  in  this  battle  of  wits. 
The  situation,  indeed,  was  made  for  him,  and  after 
Lockhart's  submission  the  conquest  of  Sir  Walter  was 
assured. 

Nor  did  he  for  a  minute  underrate  the  importance 
of  his  mission.  He  impressed  upon  Murray  not 
only  the  magnitude  of  the  stake,  but  also  the 
sacred  necessity  of  discretion.  The  love  of  mystery 
had  already  taken  hold  of  him,  and  for  fear  of  the 
postman  he  dared  not  mention  by  name  the  actors 
in  this  little  drama.  No  ;  secrecy  must  be  preserved 
inviolate,  and  Sir  Walter  figures  as  the  Chevalier, 
while  Lockhart  is  hidden   behind  an  inexpressive  M. 


DISRAELI  THE  YOUNGER  255 

And  all  the  time  the  young  Disraeli  is  conducting 
the  negotiation  with  irresistible  firmness  and  spirit, 
convinced  that  even  in  Sir  Walter's  presence  the  hero 
of  the  moment  is  really  himself.  Already  his  sanguine 
temper  detected  in  the  combination  a  vast  opportunity, 
and  he  assumed  the  lead  with  a  certainty  and  an 
arrogance  which  are  invincible.  Despite  Sir  Walter, 
Lockhart  is  to  manage  the  "  Representative "  ;  but, 
says  Disraeli,  "  it  should  be  impressed  upon  him  that 
he  is  coming  to  town  not  to  be  editor  of  a  newspaper, 
but  the  director-general  of  an  immense  organ,  and  at 
the  head  of  a  band  of  high-bred  gentlemen  and  impor- 
tant interests."  Thus  he  had  already  mastered — this 
boy  of  twenty — the  art  of  persuading  by  a  phrase,  and 
with  an  assurance  which  the  Wizard  must  have 
echoed  with  a  laugh,  he  had  even  decided  which  seat 
in  the  House  should  be  occupied  by  the  Wizard's 
son-in-law. 

The  negotiation,  in  fact,  was  brought  to  a  marvellous 
issue  ;  and,  to  top  all,  Disraeli  was  able  to  boast 
that  "  the  Chevalier  and  M.  have  unburthened  them- 
selves to  me  in  a  manner  the  most  confidential 
that  you  can  possibly  conceive."  What  secrets  they 
were  which  passed  we  shall  never  know,  for  Disraeli 
had  the  fear  of  the  postman  in  his  eye,  and  Murray 
preserved  an  unhappy  silence.  But  it  was  an  as- 
tounding trio  that  sat  round  the  fire  at  Chiefswood — 
Sir  Walter  and  Lockhart  and  Disraeli  ;  and  what  a 
priceless  document  we  should  possess  if  only  the 
greatest  man  of  his  generation   had  recorded  his  im- 


256  DISRAELI  THE  YOUNGER 

pressions  of  this  light-hearted  boy,  destined  not  only 
to  usurp  the  throne  of  romance,  but  to  govern  the 
country  ! 

Lockhart  obeyed  the  summons  ;  the  "  Representa- 
tive "  was  launched  and  foundered  ;  and  Disraeli, 
whose  memory  was  always  as  sanguine  as  his  experi- 
ence, lived  to  record,  after  half  a  century,  Sir  Walter's 
amiable  reception.  With  that  touch  of  exaggeration 
which  kept  him  a  spoilt  boy  to  the  last,  he  described 
how  the  author  of  "  Waverley,"  to  humour  a  lad  of 
twenty,  displayed  all  the  glories  of  Abbotsford,  and 
unlocked  the  treasures  of  his  mind,  until  you  are  half 
inclined  to  believe  that  the  Border  palace  was  built  to 
flatter  the  imagination  of  this  casual  visitor,  and  that 
Sir  Walter  had  waited  for  this  fitting  opportunity  to 
practise  the  art  of  conversation.  But  it  was  Disraeli's 
first  experience  in  the  management  of  men,  and, 
though  disaster  followed,  Murray  was  for  the  moment 
enchanted.  And  as  for  the  hero,  he  had  learnt  his 
lesson  ;  and  when  he  stood  before  the  electors  of 
High  Wycombe,  he  might  reflect  that  he  was  not 
wholly  unskilled  in  affairs. 

But  it  was  in  politics  that  his  alert  and  vivid 
genius  found  its  highest  expression,  and  the  choice 
is  easily  justified.  Brilliant  as  were  his  gifts  in 
literature,  Disraeli  was  never  bound  by  the  slavery 
of  words.  He  wrote  his  novels  because  he  craved 
a  popular  medium  in  which  to  translate  his  opinions, 
and  the  most  of  his  works  are  rather  fanciful  expositions 
of  his  policy  than  separate  masterpieces.     Wherefore 


DISRAELI  THE  YOUNGER  257 

he  could  never  have  been  content  for  such  poor 
fame  as  his  readers  could  give  him  to  forego  the 
frenzy  of  an  active  life.  His  ambition  was  to  govern 
men,  and  to  feel  the  impression  which  his  voice,  his 
eye,  his  gesture  made  upon  the  crowd.  His  success 
was  assured  as  soon  as  he  stood  upon  the  hustings ; 
and  long  before  he  was  appointed  to  lead  the  House 
he  had  turned  the  current  of  English  opinion.  He 
brought  to  the  solemn  task  of  government  all  those 
qualities  which  made  him  supreme  in  the  fashionable 
world,  and  gave  to  his  novels — dashed  off,  you  may  be 
sure,  at  a  sitting — a  corner  apart  in  our  English  litera- 
ture. In  the  first  place,  he  was  a  born  fighter,  to 
whom  the  interchange  of  blows  was  a  delight,  and 
who  ever  scorned  to  cover  his  fist  with  a  glove.  In 
the  second,  he  had  a  perfect  talent  for  stage  manage- 
ment. Life  for  him  was  a  drama,  in  which  he  always 
played  the  principal  part,  and  he  had  learnt  precisely 
how  and  when  to  bring  off  his  great  effects. 

The  controversy  with  O'Connell,  for  instance,  was 
as  deftly  handled  as  might  be  expected  from  D'Orsay's 
wisdom  and  Dizzy's  wit.  The  Count  had  far  too 
fine  a  sense  of  the  world  to  intervene  in  a  political 
quarrel,  but  the  challenge  was  sent  under  his  auspices 
— in  fact,  as  the  principal  confessed,  he  took  the 
management  of  everything.  With  perfect  delicacy 
Disraeli  remained  within  doors  until  ten  o'clock,  when 
he  dressed,  doubtless  with  prodigious  magnificence, 
and  went  to  the  opera.  Every  one  allowed  "  that  it 
was  done  in  first-rate  style,"  and  that  O'Connell  and 

R 


258  DISRAELI  THE  YOUNGER 

all  his  friends  were  utterly  "  squabashed."  The 
violent  explosion  in  the  Times  was  variously  greeted : 
some  found  it  coarse,  others  declared  it  worthy  of 
Swift.  But,  as  its  author  remarked  with  naive  arro- 
gance, "  the  general  effect  is  the  thing,  and  all  men 
agree  that  I  have  shown  pluck." 

This  is  but  one  example  of  the  dramatic  instinct 
which  never  failed  him  ;  and  though  he  had  nothing 
of  the  mummer's  commonness  in  his  nature,  he  recog- 
nised the  utility  of  stage  effect.  To  be  powerful  is  to 
live  in  the  mouths  of  men  ;  and  when  Disraeli  stood 
up  to  make  his  maiden  speech,  he  was  almost  as  well 
known  as  Sir  Robert  Peel  himself.  The  moment,  of 
course,  was  chosen  with  perfect  intelligence,  and  the 
subject — Ireland — gave  him  an  opportunity  of  de- 
molishing his  ancient  enemy.  The  House  was  on  the 
one  side  expectant,  on  the  other  vindictive,  but  none 
expected  the  outburst  of  ridicule  which  overwhelmed 
the  speaker.  The  sallow  face  of  the  legend,  the 
glossy  curls,  the  fantastic  attire  inspired  the  Opposi- 
tion at  least  as  much  as  the  hatred  of  the  Repealers. 
As  for  the  speech  itself,  it  struck  the  proper  note  of 
arrogance  :  it  was,  indeed,  the  trumpet-call  to  battle 
sounded  by  a  man  who  knew  neither  fear  nor  failure. 

He  set  himself  up,  possibly  without  reason,  as  "  the 
representative  of  a  considerable  number  of  members.". 
When  the  House  laughed  he  put  it  down  to  envy. 
With  his  accustomed  love  of  imagery,  abundantly 
justified  by  the  eye's  superiority  to  the  intellect,  and 
by  the  victory  which  argument  always  yields  to   the 


DISRAELI  THE  YOUNGER  259 

picturesque,  he  represented  O'Connell  dangling  in  one 
hand  the  keys  of  St.  Peter,  in  the  other  the  Cap  of 
Liberty.  As  the  uproar  increased,  he  became  defiant, 
and  in  the  old-fashioned  style  of  rodomontade  declared 
that  "  he  had  begun  many  things,  and  he  had  often 
succeeded  at  last."  Then  came  the  immortal  phrase  : 
"  I  will  sit  down  now,  but  the  time  will  come  when 
you  shall  hear  me  ; "  and  the  magnificent  conclusion, 
drowned  in  a  scream,  "  and  when  I  rise  in  this 
Assembly  hereafter,  a  dropped  pin  shall  be  heard." 

The  battle  had  been  fought,  and  Disraeli  had  won. 
When  they  talked  of  failure  Peel  was  indignant,  and 
Shiel  himself  flouted  his  own  supporters.  The  boast, 
generously  youthful  in  itself,  is  sanctified  by  time,  and 
heightens  the  fabulous  character  of  the  man  that 
uttered  it.  At  any  rate,  the  episode  left  him  "  in  good 
spirits,"  and  determined  him  not  to  lose  his  chance. 
For  a  while  he  must  subdue  his  tone,  and  his  next 
speech  was  on  Copyright  ;  he  must  show  knowledge 
rather  than  wit,  and  he  plumped  his  utterance  with 
hard,  unmanageable  facts.  But  the  single  object  was 
achieved  :  the  orator  had  captured  his  audience  ;  his 
prophecy  was  fulfilled  almost  as  soon  as  uttered  ;  and 
henceforth  he  would  never  rise  to  an  empty  House 
nor  endure  the  inattention  of  the  scornful. 

Thus,  once  more,  he  had  turned  to  triumph  what 
other  men  had  deplored  for  irretrievable  defeat,  and 
proved  that  Opportunity  is  the  greatest  of  the  gods. 
Yet,  adroit  as  he  was,  it  was  no  gift  of  manner  which 
enabled  this  Jew  of  genius  to  dominate  the  British  House 


260  DISRAELI  THE  YOUNGER 

of  Commons.  He  won  his  place  because  he  touched 
English  politics  with  the  finger  of  romance,  because 
he  lit  up  even  the  dark  places  of  Manchester  with  the 
flash  of  imagination.  The  world,  like  the  youth  of 
Contarini  Fleming,  was  dominated  by  words,  and 
Disraeli,  indignant  at  the  tyranny  of  worn-out  titles 
pleaded  for  the  superiority  of  ideas.  Was  he  Tory  or 
Radical  ?  What  mattered  the  name,  so  long  as  he 
was  guiltless  of  Whiggish  autocracy  ?  Wherefore  he 
preached  the  doctrines  of  the  Pentateuch,  with  others 
more  popular,  and  appealed  for  support  to  Bolingbroke 
and  Pitt. 

It  was  a  strange  creed,  this  mixture  of  Judaism, 
the  People,  and  Tory  tradition,  nor  is  it  surprising 
that  it  was  misunderstood.  The  sternly  orthodox 
of  all  shades  were  quick  to  denounce  Disraeli  for 
a  charlatan,  and  all  the  while  he  was  a  political  philoso- 
pher, profoundly  inspired.  He  stood  not  for  a  party, 
but  for  his  opinions,  and  when  once  his  opinions  were 
shaped  he  created  a  party,  which  should  hold  them. 
By  a  subtle  irony  he  chose  for  his  adherents  the 
nobles  and  squires  of  England,  and  it  is  small  wonder 
that  they  looked  with  suspicion  upon  his  support, 
which  soon  grew  into  dominion.  But  he  was  a 
statesman  who  could  not  live  from  hand  to  mouth 
upon  political  intrigue,  which,  said  he,  was  the 
resource  of  the  second-rate.  He  would  sustain  him- 
self upon  "great  truths,"  and,  unpalatable  as  they 
were,  he  forced  those  "great  truths"  upon  his  col- 
leagues. 


DISRAELI  THE  YOUNGER  261 

Therefore  he  detached  himself  wholly  from  the 
common  superstitions,  and  as  Sir  Walter  leapt  back 
to  the  past  for  the  material  of  his  romances,  so 
Disraeli  would  suppress  all  the  history  which  came 
between  1688  and  the  passing  of  the  Reform  Bill. 
The  object  of  the  Whigs,  said  he,  was,  and  had 
always  been,  to  convert  England  into  a  Venetian 
republic,  to  turn  the  monarch  into  a  Doge,  and 
suppress  the  people.  But  it  was  the  duty  of  all  patriots 
to  crush  the  Whigs,  whose  objects  were  to  establish  a 
tyranny  and  dismember  the  empire,  and  to  defeat  any 
party  which  did  not  respect  the  prerogative  of  the 
Crown  and  understand  the  only  object  of  all  govern- 
ment. The  theory  was  admirable,  and  admirably 
expressed,  but  it  seemed  unintelligible  to  the  true-blue 
Tory,  whose  creed  was  still  privilege,  though  the 
passing  of  the  Reform  Bill  had  endangered  the 
common  liberty. 

The  Whigs,  in  exchange  for  the  vote,  demanded 
nothing  less  than  to  be  masters  for  life,  while  the 
people,  said  Disraeli,  "took  reform,  as  some  others 
took  stolen  goods,  and  no  questions  asked."  But 
he,  calling  himself  a  Tory,  dared  to  plead  the 
cause  of  the  mob,  and,  after  the  example  of  Louis  XL, 
he  was  determined  to  thwart  the  reigning  oligarchy 
by  an  adroit  combination  of  crown  and  people.  To- 
day, maybe,  he  would  have  been  called  a  socialist, 
for  he  dreamt  of  a  Ten  Hours  Bill  ;  he  valiantly 
declared  that  the  rights  of  labour  were  as  sacred  as  the 
rights    of   property  ;    and    he    bitterly   denounced    his 


262  DISRAELI  THE  YOUNGER 

chief  enemies,  the  manufacturers,  because,  said  he, 
they  had  created  a  new  wealth,  and  held  themselves 
responsible  to  no  man.  But  Socialism  was  not  then 
invented,  and  he  was  vaguely  set  down  as  a  danger  to 
the  State. 

To  unfold  so  romantic  a  creed  before  the  unawakened 
Tory  required  a  reckless  courage,  but  courage  was 
precisely  the  quality  which  Disraeli  never  lacked.  He 
courted  opposition,  and  smiled  at  contempt.  He  knew 
as  surely  as  on  the  night  of  his  maiden  speech  that  his 
own  hour  was  coming,  and  with  an  anger  of  scorn 
he  dismissed  the  policy  of  the  Conservatives  as  an 
organised  hypocrisy.  Whether  or  no  his  demolition 
of  Peel  was  justified,  whether  it  was  he  or  his  Minister 
who  struck  the  first  blow,  it  is  idle  to  speculate  ;  but 
it  is  certain  that  no  party  was  ever  so  fiercely  demolished 
by  one  man  as  were  the  Peelites  by  Disraeli.  Young 
England  to-day  is  a  generous  dream  ;  but  when  George 
Smythe  and  the  author  of  "  Sybil  "  fought  side  by  side 
it  was  a  bitter,  acrimonious  reality.  In  vain  did  the 
magnates  of  England  express  their  distrust ;  in  vain 
did  the  King  of  Hanover  implore  Lord  Strangford  to 
extricate  his  son  from  the  clutches  of  Disraeli  ;  in 
vain  did  the  Duke  of  Rutland  lament  that  the  admirable 
character  of  Lord  John  Manners  exposed  him  to  "  the 
arts  of  a  designing  person."  The  battle  still  waged, 
and  session  after  session  Disraeli  delivered  speeches 
which  were  masterpieces  of  invective,  brilliant  with 
jibe,  and  serried  with  argument. 

The  worst  is,  you    return    to   the   famous  speeches 


DISRAELI  THE  YOUNGER  263 

with    regret    and    disappointment :    the    well-known 
scorn  is  there  ;   once  again  you  recognise  the  ancient 
jests — the  Whigs  are    caught  bathing   and    iose   their 
clothes ;    Hansard,   which    should    be    the    Delphi,   is 
but   the   Dunciad   of  Downing  Street ;    Peel's   horror 
of  slavery  does    not    extend    to    the    benches    behind 
him — "there    the  gang   is  still    assembled,   there    the 
thong   of  the   whip   still   sounds."       But    for    all    the 
deft    illustration,    for    all   the  jingled    alliteration,   the 
splendid  effect  is  gone,  and  you  wonder  whether  it  is 
not  a  crime  to  imprison  the  spoken  word.    The  orator, 
like  the  actor,  writes  his  name  in  snow,  and  may  only 
be  judged  by  the  effect  which  his  voice,  his  glance, 
and  the  wave  of  his  hand  produce  upon  the  opinion  of 
others.     Weighed   by  this  standard,  Disraeli's  victory 
was  complete.     Despite   his  small   following,   he  was 
already  master  of  the  House  ;  his  friends  belonged  to 
those    great    houses    which     it    was    his    pleasure    to 
penetrate  and  his  ambition  to  control  ;   and  surely  his 
irony  was  never  more  flattered  than  at  the  Manchester 
Athenaeum,   when,   flanked    by    George    Smythe    and 
Lord  John  Manners,  who  appeared   by  their  sires'  per- 
mission for  this  occasion  only,  he  pleaded  the  cause  of 
popular  culture  in   the  accent  of  aristocratic  Toryism. 
He  pictured   Athens,  he  quoted    Latin,  he  compared 
knowledge  to  Jacob's  mystic  ladder,  whose  "base  rests 
on    the    primeval    earth,    whose    crest    is    lost    in    the 
shadowy    splendour   of  the   empyrean."      And    all    the 
while  he  knew  that  the  hour  of  Peel's  fall  was  at  hand, 
and  that  then  nothing  could  intervene  between  himself 


264  DISRAELI  THE  YOUNGER 

and   the  leadership.     A  rich  experience  even  for  this 
artist  in  life. 

Meanwhile,  that  no  field  should  be  left  unturned,  he 
was  writing  the  splendid  series  of  romances  which 
would  have  kept  green  his  fame  had  he  never  entered 
a  drawing-room  nor  stood  upon  a  platform.  It  is  idle 
to  criticise  him  who  criticised  everything,  for,  in  truth, 
his  works  defy  every  sentiment  save  admiration.  They 
are  composed  in  a  hurry,  and  without  the  proper  sense 
of  literature.  When  the  author  of  "  Alroy  "  believes 
he  is  writing  lofty  prose,  he  is  only  covering  his  pages 
with  the  blankest  of  verse.  The  colour  is  generally 
as  false  as  the  sentiment,  and  never,  save  in  such 
dazzling  tours  deforce  as  "  Ixion,"  "  Popanilla,"  and 
the  "  Infernal  Marriage,"  wherein  the  severe  influence 
of  Voltaire  is  still  apparent,  does  the  writer  consider 
the  claims  of  grammar  or  logic.  But  you  forgive  the 
extravagance,  the  sentiment,  the  folly  of  such  brilliant 
experiments  as  "Tancred,"  "  Sybil,"  and  "  Coningsby  " 
for  a  thousand  golden  virtues.  For  here  is  the  real 
Disraeli  revealed — a  mixture  of  romance  and  reality, 
scorn  and  gentleness. 

Compare  the  first  volume  of  "  Tancred "  with 
the  second,  and  you  shall  see  the  true  meeting  of 
East  and  West.  You  cannot  imagine  a  greater 
contrast  than  glitters  between  Leander,  that  king 
of  cooks  and  Fakredeen,  the  immortal  type  of 
the  adroit,  unscrupulous,  fascinating  adventurer.  Yet 
each  is  drawn  with  a  precision  and  sympathy  which 
could  only  proceed  from  intimate  knowledge.     Indeed, 


DISRAELI  THE  YOUNGER  265 

Disraeli  belonged  to  many  worlds,  and  he  poured  pell- 
mell  into  his  romances  his  manifold  experience.  If 
the  blameless  young  man  and  the  virtuous  maid  eluded 
him,  as  they  have  eluded  the  rest,  he  drew  such 
characters  as  are  outside  the  common  observation  with 
a  skill  that  only  can  be  matched  in  the  great  masters 
of  fiction.  His  Mirabel,  his  Monmouth,  his  mira- 
culous Sidonia,  the  ineffable  Rigby,  those  prodigies 
of  intrigue  Taper  and  Tadpole,  who  never  despaired 
of  the  Commonwealth,  the  Marneys  and  Bellamonts 
— where  shall  you  rival  them  for  justice  and  under- 
standing ? 

And  the  wit  of  his  dialogue,  the  aptness  of  his 
satire,  the  ferocity  of  his  comment  upon  life,  literature, 
and  art — they  are  all  unparalleled  and  his  own.  Now 
instead  of  appealing  from  the  mediocrity  of  one  to  the 
mediocrity  of  many,  he  would  hang  an  architect ;  now 
he  sings  the  paean  of  intrigue,  and  declares  that  youth 
and  debt  are  the  stimulus  of  action.  But  wherever 
you  prick  him,  he  sheds  the  bloods  of  sincerity  to  him- 
self. For  his  novels,  if  not  autobiography,  are  still  a 
transparent  reflection  of  his  moods  and  opinions.  He 
wrote  so  rapidly  that  he  had  not  time  to  mask  his 
meaning  ;  and  he  thought  so  deeply  that  he  repeats 
himself  again  and  again.  If  in  his  novels  you  find  the 
germs  of  all  his  policies,  if  Cyprus  is  given  to  England 
by  Tancred  himself,  and  the  Queen  is  already  hailed 
Empress  of  India,  so  his  speeches  are  little  else  than 
his  romances,  shaped  for  the  voice  and  another  audience. 
But    at    least    this    restless    spirit    had    found    another 


266  DISRAELI  THE  YOUNGER 

expression,  this  limitless  ambition  had  won  another 
pasturage. 

Once  upon  a  time,  before  he  had  taken  his  seat  as 
member  for  Maidstone,  he  announced  that  if  there 
was  anything  upon  which  he  piqued  himself  it  was 
consistency.  Now,  consistency,  if  it  be  the  least 
offensive  of  the  vices,  is  still  the  vilest  of  the  virtues, 
which  springs  rather  from  the  obstinacy  of  weakness 
than  from  the  certainty  of  strength.  But  in  a  sense 
Disraeli  was  consistent,  and  his  uniformity  of  opinion 
is  readily  explained.  He  began  life  with  his  career 
minutely  sketched  ("I  mean  to  be  Prime  Minister," 
he  told  Lord  Melbourne  in  1835),  and  being  emanci- 
pated from  the  catch-words  of  party,  he  was  forced  to 
formulate  in  his  youth  the  creed  of  popular  Toryism, 
which  guided  him  until  the  last.  Yet  in  nothing  was 
he  so  sincerely  consistent  as  in  his  devotion  to  his  race. 
He  was  a  Jew  first,  an  Englishman  afterwards,  and 
this  whole-hearted  loyalty  was  firmly  established  upon 
the  rock  of  pride. 

Whether  or  not  he  had  suffered  from  persecution, 
he  "never  imbibed  that  dislike  for  his  race  which 
the  vain  are  apt  to  adopt  when  they  find  that 
they  are  born  to  public  contempt."  He,  too,  was 
vain  ;  in  truth,  he  scaled  the  heights  of  arrogance, 
but  his  vanity  assumed  another  shape.  For  him  the 
East  was  a  career ;  his  eyes  were  always  turned 
towards  the  cradle  of  his  race.  Oriental  in  his  taste, 
as  in  his  lack  of  it,  he  believed  that  the  patriarchs  had 
laid  down  the  laws  of  government  for  all  time,  and  he 


DISRAELI  THE  YOUNGER  267 

would  twist  the  policy  of  England  until  it  harmonised 
with  the  ideals  of  the  Hebrew  kings.  His  books,  his 
speeches,  his  life  were  the  acclamation  of  Jewish 
wisdom  and  Jewish  grandeur.  He  pleaded  the  cause 
of  his  people  without  passion,  but  rather  with  that 
secure  valiance  which  comes  from  the  conscience  of  a 
just  cause.  Tancred's  noble  fantasy  of  the  East, 
Alroy's  unhappy  devotion  to  a  lost  people,  are  but  the 
loftiest  expression  of  his  constant  dream.  To  read  his 
eloquent  argument  is  to  wonder  that  in  any  corner  of 
the  world  the  foolish  man  should  cry  "  Death  "  to  the 
Jew.  "All  is  race,"  says  Sidonia  ;  "  there  is  no  other 
truth  ; "  and  every  race  must  decay  "  unless  it  lives  in 
deserts  and  never  mixes  its  blood."  The  Jews,  it  is 
certain,  do  not  live  in  deserts,  but  they  keep  their 
blood  pure,  and  so,  for  good  or  evil,  they  have  become 
the  rulers  of  the  world. 

In  "  Coningsby "  Sidonia,  the  concretion  of  the 
Hebrew  intellect,  as  fine  a  gentleman,  as  adroit 
a  politician,  as  profound  a  scholar,  as  ever  stepped 
into  the  pages  of  a  novel,  would  prove  by  example 
that  the  most  learned  students,  the  astutest  diplomatists, 
the  most  powerful  Ministers,  and  even  many  marshals 
of  France  are  of  Abraham's  seed.  So  far  the  argu- 
ment is  ornamental  and  extravagant  ;  but  Disraeli 
insists  upon  the  perfect  emancipation  of  his  people 
upon  other  and  far  more  practical  grounds.  All 
the  tendencies  of  the  Jewish  race,  he  declares,  are  conser- 
vative. How  should  a  people,  justly  proud  of  its  blood, 
ever  patient   in   its  observance  of  ceremonial,  decline 


268  DISRAELI  THE  YOUNGER 

upon  so  ridiculous  a  doctrine  as  the  equality  of  man  ! 
In  brief,  '  the  bias  of  the  Jews  is  to  religion,  property, 
and  natural  aristocracy  ;  and  it  should  be  the  interest 
of  statesmen  that  this  bias  should  be  encouraged,  and 
their  energies  and  creative  powers  enlisted  in  the  cause 
of  existing  society."  As  they  have  lived  under  a  feudal 
system,  so  they  are  born  with  an  understanding  of 
monarchy  and  submission,  and  no  people  in  the  world 
is  better  fitted  for  patriotism  than  the  people  which 
to-day  holds  the  keys  of  empire. 

Yet  a  foolish  persecution  of  a  great  race  would 
deprive  Europe  of  a  solidly  conservative  element, 
and  that  this  persecution  is  unnecessary  is  proved 
not  only  by  the  large  tolerance  of  many  generations, 
but  by  the  supremacy  which  the  most  devoted 
Jew  of  the  century  exercised  over  an  aristocracy 
many  centuries  younger  than  his  own.  The  argument 
is  perfect,  if  you  forget  the  vain  prejudice  of  race, 
which  makes  justice  a  mockery  and  turns  men 
into  beasts  of  fury.  But  Disraeli  carried  his  logic 
a  step  further,  and  asked  with  perfect  reason  who 
could  "deny  that  Jesus  of  Nazareth  is  the  eternal 
glory  of  the  Jewish  race?"  In  truth,  it  was  his 
favourite  maxim  that  the  complete  Jew  believed  not 
only  in  Sinai  but  in  Calvary,  and,  said  he,  the  Italian 
who  accuses  a  Christian  Jew  of  perversion  has  misread 
history.  For  the  Jew  has  but  fulfilled  the  Law  and 
the  Prophets,  and  the  pagan,  turned  against  his  gods, 
is  the  true  renegade. 

But  the  soundest  arguments  war  vainly  with  passion, 


DISRAELI  THE  YOUNGER  269 

and  Disraeli's  career  was  a  finer  championship  of  his 
race  than  all  his  logic.  Yet  there  is  one  mystery 
which  he  cherished  himself — the  mystery  of  his  cha- 
racter. He  achieved  so  much,  and  he  said  so  many 
things,  that  it  has  been  a  favourite  pastime  to  discover 
inconsistencies  in  the  most  consistent  hero  of  the 
century.  He  was  a  Jew  and  a  Christian,  a  Tory  and 
a  Radical,  a  novelist  and  an  orator.  Perhaps  there 
were  in  him  the  seeds  of  many  contrary  things.  But 
is  it  not  far  simpler  to  confess  that  he  was  a  man  of 
genius,  who  fulfilled  himself  in  many  ways,  a  prince  of 
many  kingdoms,  who  came  into  them  all  ?  Mystery 
was  his  pose,  and  yet  he  was  the  most  candid  of  men. 
He  could  not,  if  he  would,  suppress  his  meaning. 
What  he  was  in  his  books  that  he  was  in  his  career ; 
and  while  romance  was  his  life,  his  life  was  a  more 
brilliant  romance  than  his  own  ironic  pen  had  dared 
to  shape.  But  time,  which  spared  his  genius,  indulged 
not  his  enemies  ;  and  he,  who  had  been  content  to 
dream  and  to  fight,  was  called  to  government.  Hence- 
forth he  must  desert  adventure  for  accomplishment, 
romance  for  the  hard  dry  atmosphere  of  office.  The 
career  of  Disraeli  the  Younger  was  finished  ;  the  novels 
were  written,  the  satires  laid  aside  ;  deeds  must  silence 
words;  and  the  Cyprus  dreamed  of  in  "  Tancrcd  " 
should  be  ours,  and  the  Queen  should  in  very  truth 
be  Empress.  For  though  the  statesman  of  to-morrow 
must  eclipse  the  enchanted  Arabian  of  to-day,  his 
heart  was  still  faithful  to  romance,  his  face  was  still  set 
towards  the  immortal  East. 


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